Agape
by Locked Heart Ami
Summary: The Dark Knight's Joker finds his Harley. Or, rather, she finds him. WARNINGS: Extreme violence, disturbing content.
1. Coffee

"Welcome to Arkham

"Welcome to Arkham."

Harleen Quinzel reached over the mahogany office desk, shook his hand. "Thank you, Doctor," she said, smiling as brightly as she could. "I'm really grateful for this position."

"You should be," Jeremiah Arkham said. He winked at her. "Half Gotham sent me their resumes when Doctor Crane… resigned. Your competition wasn't light."

"I have a PhD from Gotham State," Harleen pointed out. "My credentials weren't to be laughed at."

But Arkham did laugh. "It wasn't your credentials that got you this job, I assure you," he said, smiling broadly and leaning back in his chair. Harley looked away. "Perhaps I should congratulate you."

Harleen smiled modestly, one hand wrapped, white-knuckled, around her Styrofoam coffee cup. She took a tiny sip; the tincture was strong as battery acid. "It's an honor," she said tightly, "To work under such a prestigious staff."

"And with such well-known patients?"

"Well," Harleen said, looking down into her black coffee with a smile, "I'd be lying if I said our clientele wasn't… intriguing."

"Try not to get _too _intrigued," said Doctor Arkham, watching her. "The novelty may wear off quickly. But until then… you've looked at the inmate's records. Did you have anyone in mind as your first patient?"

Harleen hesitated. "As a matter of fact," she said, "I do. But I would assume you've already assigned someone to his case."

"Who?"

She took a deep breath, looked Arkham straight in the eye. "I'm afraid I don't know his name," she replied. "But they say he has a sense of humor."

Doctor Arkham nodded slowly. "You want our celebrity," he said with a cocked eyebrow. Harley shrugged modestly, forcing down another sip of coffee. "What makes you think you're equipped to deal with this guy?" Arkham asked abruptly. Harleen glanced up, caught off-guard; Arkham's expression was cool and appraising.

"Doctor Arkham – "

Arkham made a generous gesture. "Please, I've already told you. Call me Jeremiah."

Harleen sighed. "Jeremiah, then. I'll be honest with you." Her fingers twisted around each other in her pencil-skirted lap. "I wasn't first in my class, in school. I never had top marks. I wasn't valedictorian or homecoming queen." She looked up; Arkham was watching her. He looked, predictably, somewhat amused. "But I had something no one else had," Harleen finished, almost fiercely, "And everyone knew it."

"And what's that?"

"I care about people," Harleen said. "I care what happens to them, what _will_ happen to them. As I understand it, you have no way to bargain with this man, nothing to threaten him with. You have nothing to lose by letting me try a different approach."

Doctor Arkham looked skeptical. He rested his chin on one fist. "This man wanted to see Gotham go up in a blaze of gunpowder. You still care about him?"

Harleen smiled. "If I say yes, am I crazy?"

"I don't know," Arkham said wryly, rubbing his temple. "At Arkham, you have some serious competition."

"Everyone deserves a second chance," Harleen said firmly. "I believe that very strongly. With the right approach, everyone can be rehabilitated."

"Other psychologists have tried and failed with this guy," Doctor Arkham said, "But you make a good case, Harleen. You're very convincing." He reached out, ran the back of his hand down her neck. Harleen stiffened, but she had trained herself not to respond. "But then, I already knew that, didn't I?" She didn't say anything. "Take the Joker's case," Arkham said, shrugging. "As you said, I've got nothing to lose. But I expect progress. And confidentiality."

"Of course," Harleen said.

"And Harleen?"

Harleen sighed. Couldn't he call her Doctor? They both knew how she'd gotten this job, but he could at least treat her like a professional. "Doctor Arkham?"

"You want to lighten up the makeup a little bit?" He reached out, brushed a thumb over her red-slicked lips. This time she pulled away. "You're a very pretty girl," Arkham said, grinning, "But this is a professional environment; we're trying to cultivate a mature and sober appearance among our staff. So I'll start you on the Joker tomorrow, but leave your makeup bag at home." He winked at her. "No more clown face."

Harleen forced herself to smile. "Of course," she said. "I understand completely. It was my mistake."

"All girls want to look good," Arkham assured her. His eyes lingered on the unbuttoned top of her blouse, where the creamy white ribbons tied. "But the people you'll be working with here… there's no one worth impressing."

"I take pride in my appearance," Harleen said, rather stiffly.

Arkham laughed. "Thank heavens for that," he smiled. "Anyway, I won't keep you. You'll be provided with a private consultation room for your sessions with the Joker, starting tomorrow." He leaned forward, saying confidentially, "There are no cameras, Doctor Quinzel, so feel free to take whatever measures you need to."

"I'm sure that won't be necessary. I've never found an aggressive approach is rewarded."

Doctor Arkham shrugged. "You're new to the job," he said. "I'll be honest with you, Harleen. I'm not giving you this assignment because I think you're ready for it."

"Well," said Harleen, "Thank you for making that distinction. I wouldn't want to get the impression my services were worth any more than they are."

"Oh, I've enjoyed your services extensively," Doctor Arkham laughed, "Make no

mistake of that. But I'm giving you this assignment because our more senior doctors have all refused to take it. To be frank, Harleen… he scares them."

"I might surprise you," Harleen said. She rose from her leather-padded seat, picked her purse off Arkham's desk. "I don't scare easy."


	2. Roses

Harleen stepped out of her car within the barbed-wire confines of the Asylum parking lot. She hadn't taken ten steps before she noticed someone tailing her.

In Gotham that was usually a cue to run, even this early in the morning. But Harley was within yelling distance of the asylum, and the figure approaching her was lean and willowy, a woman. Not much of a threat. Harleen paused and waited.

"Hi, excuse me," the woman called as she caught up to Harleen, waving. As she got closer to Quinzel, the doctor was taken aback by the woman's extraordinary beauty – a delicate heart-shaped face, long rippling of waves auburn hair, forest-green eyes. She was cloistered in a wide-brimmed fedora and a trench coat, collar turned up, both in earthen brown. She clutched a crystal vase of red roses in both slender hands, water sloshing over the sides.

"Hi," Harleen said, glancing at the roses curiously. "Can I help you with something?"

The woman who had stopped Harleen looked about furtively. "You're Doctor Quinzel," she said, "Aren't you?"

"That's me," Harleen laughed, smoothing her bleached-blonde hair where the wind had ruffled it. "What can I do for you?"

"You're working with him, aren't you?" the redhead said.

Harleen didn't have to ask who she meant. "Starting today," she affirmed. "How did you know that?"

"Will you give him these?" the redhead blurted.

Harleen blinked as the woman shoved the crystal vase into her arms. "I'm sorry?"

"He's a friend," the redhead said carefully. She was already stepping back, away from Harleen. "I'd really appreciate it if you'd help me out."

A friend? Jeremiah had told Harleen that the Asylum staff knew nothing of the Joker – no name, no past, no leverage. This redheaded woman – if her story was true – was an unexpected lead. Yet policy was policy, and Harleen doubted the wisdom of breaking Arkham's rules during her first week on the job. She shook her head and tried to give the roses back. "I'm sorry. Gifts go through security staff."

The redhead shook her head quickly. "Security won't put it through unless I bribe them. I don't have the money. Trust me -- you don't know how much this will mean to him, all alone in there. Please help me." She regarded Harley unwaveringly through wide, unblinking green eyes.

Her helpless stare melted Harleen's resolve. "Well… all right," she said. "Just this once." She shifted the vase into a more comfortable position in her arms, taking care not to knock the parchment card nestled amidst the roses into the water.

The woman's face broke into a startlingly white smile. "Thank you so much," she said. "I have to go, but -- thank you. I _really_ appreciate this." She laughed suddenly, emerald eyes glinting, and offered, "I'm Pamela."

"Harleen," Harleen said.

Pamela glanced over her shoulder as she retreated. "You'll really give them to him?"

Harley tried to smile at her. "Of course I will. Goodbye," she called, because the woman was already vanishing.


	3. Crystals

"Someone sent you roses," Harleen said brightly, as the heavy metal door of the "consultation room" slammed shut. She smiled at him.

Possibly, he smiled back. She never was sure – his twisted, scarred mouth always played tricks on her eyes, among other bits of her. But he didn't say anything. He just sat there on the couch, knees apart and hands steepled, like a gangster or a prince.

"Someone named Pamela," Harleen provided. "I'll just -- put them on the table." She did so, then sat down on the tippy metal stool beside the couch, picking up the clipboard that had been left for her, rustling its leaves – which consisted mostly of a dubiously helpful 'case study' from the Joker's last psychologist. _Who, according to Doctor Arkham, is now on stress leave._ "Hi," Harleen added quietly. "I'm Doctor Quinzel. Harleen Quinzel. I've just been assigned to your case."

He watched her. She rustled the papers again. "It says here…" she began softly, "That they don't know your name, your age. Nothing at all, I'm afraid." She hesitated, and then read off the case study. "'_Asocial. Sociopathic.. Unrelentingly cruel, yet calls himself a joker._' Do you think that describes you?"

"_The_ joker," he muttered, glaring. They were the first words he spoke, and his voice – rough, but surprisingly quiet -- jolted Harleen. "_The_ joker, _the_ joker. _A_ joker? What the hell does that mean? I'm _the_ joker. They could at least get it _right_."

"I'll make the correction," Harleen said, smiling, and she wrote "THE" over "a" on the clipboard, to show she was sincere. When she looked up, however, he didn't seem to have noticed.

"Harleen Quinzel," he rolled the name over his tongue like dice, spat the words out on the table. "Harleen Quinzel, that's quite a… handle you've got on you. Is that your real name?"

Harleen laughed. "I'm afraid so."

"Parents hate you?"

"It's a family name."

"A family name… you're from a family with family names?" His face cracked into a jagged grin. "So," he said – conversational, almost supercilious – "Where are you from, Har_leen_ Quin_zel_? What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"

"I'm from New Jersey, originally," Harley admitted. It wasn't leverage; she'd stopped bothering to hide her Jersey twang.

"And you studied… where?"

"Is it any of your business?"

The Joker blinked at her, all wide-eyed reproach. "I take my recovery very seriously," he said, injured. "The last thing I want is some _quack _treating me. Suppose you got your degree at _Phoenix_?"

Harleen tried not to smile. He had a sharp mind, and a keen wit. "You can lay your fears to rest," she said dryly. "I studied at Gotham State. I received my PhD last year." She examined his face – transformed, without the makeup he'd worn on TV. The scars weren't quite so horrifying when they weren't war-painted with red lipstick. "What happened to your cheek?" she said abruptly, noticing a bruise below one eye.

The Joker considered the question, and finally answered, with a smug smack of his lips, "I… fell down some stairs."

Harleen paled. "If the guards have been beating you," she said tightly, "That's inexcusable."

"Not the _guards_, Harley," the Joker scoffed. "_Bats_. You know they let him in here to see me, right? That's my weekly visitor. Whenever he's having a… bad day. But I'm happy to help him work off his aggression." Joker flashed a sickening grin. "That's what friends are for."

"If what you're saying is true," Harleen breathed, "I promise that I'll go straight to Doctor Arkham. You don't have to subject yourself to – "

"Don't go to Doc Arkham over _that_," the Joker said dryly. "Harley, honey, I've got a looooong list of other things for you to attend to."

"Really," Harleen said skeptically. "And what does that list entail?"

The Joker held up his hand and squinted at it, as though he'd written notes on his palm. "I want my makeup bag back," he began, ticking the items off on his fingers. "I want out of solitary, into a single room. And I want _you_," he finished, leering, "To unbutton one… more… button on your blouse, beautiful." He made a muffled sound, like a dog panting. "I've got a bet with myself that your bra is black."

Harley snorted. "Are you trying to intimidate me?" she said coolly, reaching up and undoing her top button without any embarrassment whatsoever. A triangle of dark-blue satin peeked out from under her blouse; the Joker had lost his bet. "Believe me, Mr. Joker, I'm not the kind of woman terrified into subservience by any acknowledgement of her own femininity."

The Joker blinked at Harley. "Wow," he said slowly, and began to grin. "That's quite a vocabulary, Harley. You really have been to school."

He was smiling so winningly that Harleen had to laugh. "I'll see what I can do about the rest," she said, "On the condition you cooperate. Okay?"

He wasn't listening – again. He was too busy eying the roses. "Who did you say those were from?"

"Pamela," Harleen said quickly. "Do you know her?"

"I've known a dozen Pamelas," the Joker said, rolling his eyes, and picked up the parchment card with its fountain-pen writing, nestled among the roses. He regarded it inscrutably for a second, then slipped it inside his prison jumpsuit, pulling the crystal vase closer to the couch so he could see the blossoms better. "But I'm afraid," he said confidentially, looking at Harleen with a guilty smile, "That it looks like this one might… have a bit… of a _thing_ for me. Red roses," he finished. "Bad sign."

Harleen smiled, but she couldn't help feeling disappointed. There went her most obvious lead. "You've got a sense of humor, Mister Joker," she said teasingly. "When you're rehabilitated, we'll find you a job as a comedian. Now, you seem to know quite a lot about me already. Shall we move on and talk a bit about you?"

The Joker regarded her. "Shoot," he said finally, inscrutable as ever.

"Well," said Harleen, "Shall we start with a name?"

"Call me Jack."

"Jack." Harley wrote it down, mostly just for the satisfaction of having something on her blank paper. "Is that your real name?"

"No," said the Joker. He leaned back onto the couch, fingering the rose petals, an odd delicacy to his touch. "I just feel like a Jack today."

"Well, if it's not your real name, I'm not going to call you that," Harleen insisted, shaking her head. "But the _Joker_, and _Jack_… a pattern emerges already, doesn't it, Mr. _J_?"

"Yeah," the Joker said dryly, after a second's hesitation. "You got me."

"All right," Harleen said, smiling. "So, my very mysterious Mr. J… could you tell me a little about yourself?" Suddenly he was back to the silence. He stared at her. "About your past, maybe?" she said faintly, not wanting to undo her progress. "I hardly know where you've – "

"Harley," the Joker said sadly. "Harley, Harley, Harley. Darling. You don't have to pretend with me. I know."

"You know what?" Harleen asked, her pen poised.

"What you _really _want to know. I mean, about me." He pointed to his split Chelsea grin. "It's the scars, right? You want to know about the scars. They _all_ want to know about the _scars_."

"That's a start," Harleen said calmly. "Do you want to tell me?"

"Yes," he grinned. "Oh, yes."

"Well," Harleen said, smiling faintly, "I'm waiting."

The Joker leaned back in his chair and regarded Harleen. "They're nice roses," he said quietly, leaning forward to smell one. Then, without warning, he swept a powerful arm across the table. The crystal vase fell to the floor, shattered. Roses and water exploded in all directions. Before Harleen even had time to react, the Joker had the biggest piece of broken glass in one hand, and he reached forward with the other, grabbing Harleen by the throat.

She didn't trust herself to say anything, simply stared at him, breathing shallowly._ No cameras. Thanks, Arkham._

"Little mistake on your part," Joker purred. "That's okay. You're new at this. Let's talk about my scars." His tone hadn't changed at all. "As a teenager, I was depressed." He stopped, thought about that, nodded. Almost smiled at Harleen. "I know, right? All teenage boys are depressed. Couldn't get the girl. Very sad. So my parents sent me to this quack pop-psychologist." He paused, and his eyes bored into Harleen's. She met his gaze, but her shaking hands let her clipboard slip to the floor. "As a matter of fact, she looked a lot… like… you."

He leaned forward; Harleen flinched as he stood up, dragging her to her feet as well. "This lovely woman," the Joker continued, "Is pretty, sure, but she doesn't know psychology from Saigon City." He manhandled Harleen in his grasp until he stood behind her, the shard of razor-sharp crystal in his hand, prising open her mouth. She didn't resist, let him lay the crystal shard against her lip. The roses were scattered in a damp pile over the floor, and the broken crystal gleamed like candy.

The sharp edge bit into the corner of Harleen's mouth, although the Joker had applied no pressure. She thought she tasted blood. "She talks to me once or twice," the Joker purred. "Decides she knows what the problem is. I'm just too _serious_. So she recommends an… experimental… cure." He pressed the glass harder into Harley's lip. A thin rivulet of blood snaked down her chin; she could feel its itchy, red hotness. "My parents' health insurance is running low," the Joker continued, "So they decide this will be performed without any anesthetic." He paused, and, holding Harleen still, twisted around until he was in front of her again. "And so…" he began, his tone soft and almost fond, and he gently stroked her neck, "I head into surgery…." He looked pleasantly into Harleen's eyes. What would it feel like, she wondered, biting into her skin? Would there be much pain? Would she end with a bang, or a whimper?

Then he stopped.

"You head into surgery…." Harleen echoed faintly, and waited for the inevitable rest.

The Joker squinted at her for a second, stared hard into her eyes, tightened his death's grip on her neck and chin. Then, suddenly, the pressure on Harleen's lip stopped. "What's the matter with you?" he barked.

"What's the matter with _you_?" Harleen mumbled indignantly, speaking carefully around the razor-sharp glass. "You're the one with a piece of glass in my mouth!"

The Joker grabbed her by the chin and forced her to look at him. His eyes were hard as famine, and there was a strange twist to his scarred mouth. "You want me to do it," he said slowly.

"Not really," Harleen said.

"Look at me," the Joker muttered. His vice-grip on her chin, his face inches from hers.

"I am looking at – "

"No, _look _at me, look at me properly." She didn't know what he meant. She _was_ looking at him. Slowly, experimentally, the Joker pressed one leg between hers, watching her face intently for a reaction. Harleen tried to look horrified. She _was_ horrified, she told herself. He was going to get her skirt dirty.

Abruptly Joker shoved Harleen against the wall, so hard that she saw stars. He began to laugh, low and sinister, as she slid down into the puddle of broken glass and roses. "You didn't care," he giggled. "You're right, you didn't _want_ me to do it, but you didn't want me _not_ to. _You – didn't – care_!" Harleen flinched. "And they say _I'm_ crazy?!" Joker exclaimed, roaring with laughter. "Arkham has a sense of humor after all!" He squatted down, grinning at her, his hot breath on her neck. "Why did they assign you to me, Harley?" he asked fondly, ruffling her hair. "Because you have less to lose than I do?"

"No," Harleen said hoarsely, flatly, feeling her throat. "I asked for your case."

"Did you, now," the Joker sneered, straightening up. "And why was that?"

"I was on the boat," Harleen said, smoothing her wild hair.

"What – oh." The Joker glanced at her, eyebrows lifted. "Which one?"

"The good one," Harleen snapped.

Joker stretched out his hands towards her, as though warming them on a fire. "Is that a little spark I sense at last?" he giggled. "Does she have some spunk after all?" He knelt and stared into her eyes. "No," he said at last. "False alarm. Window dressing. So tell me – Harley of my heart – was it _good_ for you? Oh, stand up," he said impatiently, grabbing her by the shoulder and hauling her to her feet. "Don't lie there in the corner like a rag doll."

Harleen stared at him. "This session's over," she said.

"Come back and see me some time," the Joker snickered. "I'll tell them I _only_ want to see you. No other doctor will do it for me, doll." He leered at her – not at her body, but at her spirit, which was worse. Harleen felt stripped naked before him, and his voice was like the voice of judgment as he said, "You're a good time, Harleen Quinzel. Give a man a fresh perspective on the world. Half an hour with a wreck like you, and by comparison, even Arkham doesn't seem as bad."

In her bubble bath that night, Harley ran her rosy fingertips over her arms, her neck, where he had grabbed her. She thought about him, about what had happened. She remembered the feel of his arms. She had imagined him as weak, effete, almost, but he had been built like. Like. Like nothing. That blade hadn't felt like anything, and she couldn't shake his smell. He smelled like freedom, or maybe like death. She had always mixed those two things up.

She sighed and, gasping a deep breath, dunked her head under the water.


	4. Papers

"I want off the case," said Harleen

"I want off the case," said Harleen.

Doctor Arkham's eyebrows rose. He examined the stacked papers of the Joker's case study, saying nothing.

"Put me on Carmine Falcone," Harleen said. "I could help with him. Put me on the fear toxin victims' ward."

"Wait a second, Harleen," Doctor Arkham said, pleasantly enough. "You were in here the other day, all fluttering lashes, telling me you'd have no problem with the Joker."

"I was wrong," Harleen said stiffly. She hoped her red cardigan covered the bruises on her shoulders. "I'm sorry for the inconvenience. Please transfer me elsewhere."

"Hang on just a minute," Doctor Arkham said. He was smiling; he looked to be enjoying himself as he pushed the case study back towards Harleen. Her well-manicured hands neatened the papers automatically. "You were so sure of yourself yesterday. You said he didn't have to be handcuffed, that you didn't need a bodyguard, that you could handle him on your own. What happened between then and now? Tell me, Harleen – " Arkham grinned rakishly, leaning forward over his desk -- "What was your wakeup call? Security mentioned you had a little accident yesterday. Something about some flowers."

"I'm not the right doctor for this case," Harleen said. "Please, Doctor Arkham, try do understand."

"_Please,_ Harleen. Call me Jeremiah."

"Jeremiah," Harleen muttered. She could feel herself blushing. "Who shall I work with tomorrow?"

"Slow down, Harleen," Arkham repeated, grinning.

"If I show down any more, I'll go into reverse," Harleen snapped, and hated the hysterical, tinny ring to her voice. Arkham ignored the jibe, anyway, so she focused on her breathing. _Professional. Calm and professional._

"I'd love to help, but it isn't quite so simple," Arkham was going slowly, taking his time, enjoying his power. "I don't know what they taught you at Gotham State, but at Arkham Asylum, you can't just decide you're on cases one day, off them the next. At Arkham, we don't work based on whims. You asked for the Joker's files _yesterday_ – " he gestured expansively over the stack of notes – "And you're already quitting?"

"I know," Harleen mumbled, staring at her hands in her lap, "How this looks. I do. But – "

"I've already gone out on a limb for you, you know," Arkham declared, shaking his head sadly. "Most of our staff refused to work with the Joker, true, but that doesn't change the fact that the powers that be were leery of throwing some _kid_ from New _Jersey_ into a padded cell with him. That's you, by the way," he added.

"I guessed," Harleen said dryly

"I had to defend you, you know," Arkham said, expression sober, but a twinkle in his eye. "Tell them you knew what you were doing."

"I don't know what I'm doing," Harleen snapped. Her hands twisted around each other. She picked at her French manicure. "Is that what you want to hear?"

"Harleen, please," Doctor Arkham said, his tone injured. "This isn't about recrimination. It's just that it's most inconvenient to have to reassign you -- not to mention _embarrassing_." Arkham shifted back in his seat, rested his head on his folded hands. "That said…" his eyes roamed over Harleen's body, peeling off her red sweater. "If you want to make it worth my while, show me of how_ badly_ you want this reassignment…."

Harleen considered it, but… no. The first time had been bad enough. She couldn't stand the idea of his clumsy hands on her again, that smell of metal, medicine, of antibacterial soap. "I'll stay with the Joker," she murmured finally, and rose, picking up the stack of papers. The Joker's photo, on the front page, leered up at her -- just another pair of hungry eyes. "Thank you for your time, Jeremiah."

Doctor Arkham laughed. "Let me know when you're ready to convince me," he called after Harleen, as she let herself out. She nodded, smiled, and closed the door, much harder than she had to.


	5. Lipstick

"Honey," he said

"Honey," he said. "You're home."

Harleen flinched as the metal door slammed behind her. She tried to smile at the Joker. "Of course," she said, trying hard to make it sound as though she'd intended to return all along.

"Why?"

"Because… I care about my patients," she said, through a bright and brittle smile, feeling inexplicably and horribly guilty.

"_Do_ you? That's _nice_. But, um, there seems to have been a little misunderstanding," the Joker said, leaning forward confidentially from his seat on the couch. Harleen slipped off her jacket and hung it on the back of her chair. "You remember those nice roses Pamela sent me the other day? They haven't shown up in my cell." He sighed, steepling his fingers. "I don't want to make trouble," he concluded soberly, "But I think maybe one of the guards took them. You might want to look into that."

"You're annoyed because you don't have your roses?" Harleen echoed, sitting down. She was shooting for an indignant tone, but only achieved amused. "You weren't exactly cooperative last week, Mr. J. I think you should be grateful I didn't request you be handcuffed."

"Uh, yeah, thanks for that," the Joker said, unenthusiastically. He shifted, mouth twisting and twitching habitually. Harleen caught herself staring, fascinated, and quickly glanced away. "How are my other little _requests_ coming along?" In answer, Harleen reached into her patent leather purse, tossed the Joker a makeup bag. He frowned at it. "That's not mine."

"No," Harleen said. "They threw yours away. It's mine."

The Joker unzipped the bag and dumped the contents into his lap. He frowned at the tubes and bottles, then sighed, resigned. "Well, beggars and choosers and so on." Briskly, with the air of a businessman straightening his tie, he took Harleen's palest foundation and set to work.

"This is on the condition of your good behavior," Harleen said wearily. She took off her glasses and polished them on her sleeve. "I'd say your _continued _good behavior, but thus far there _hasn't_ really been anything to continue, has there?"

"Harlot Red," the Joker said. Harleen snapped her head up. He was reading the label on her lipstick, and glanced up at her with a bemused expression. "Do you consider yourself a _harlot_?"

"I consider that my favorite lipstick," Harleen said frostily. "I'd appreciate it if you'd use the other one."

"Nah. I'm feeling like a harlot today, too," the Joker said, and proceeded to paint on his smile. "So I've been thinking about you a lot, Harley the Harlot," he said as he worked. "You said you were on the ferry, right?"

"That's right."

"So I thought I'd ask you – one professional to another – what exactly happened out there?" He threw the ruined Harlot Red into the corner of the cell, picked up Harleen's black eye shadow, began drawing his raccoon-rings. "I mean," he said, "I had this elaborate plan, ferries wired, everything. I even gift wrapped the detonators. You can imagine my disappointment when nothing… detonates. What happened?" he zipped up her makeup bag and handed it back to her with a flourish. "What went wrong?"

Harleen took the bag and soundlessly dropped it back into her purse, staring at the Joker. The mask of makeup completely transformed his face; scarred heretic to clown price of crime. Now she saw why Doctor Arkham had refused him the cosmetics; she almost wished _she_ had. "I can only speak for the civilian ferry," she said. "There was panic, initially, but the captain kept order. Eventually, to decide whether or not to detonate the other ship, we held a vote."

"A_ vote_," the Joker groaned. "You people _really_ know how to ruin a good joke. So… Harleen… mind if I ask who got your ballot?"

"I voted no," Harleen said. "What kind of a person do you think I am?"

"I think you're the kind of person who doesn't care who slits her throat, which means all bets are off," the Joker replied dryly. He shifted his weight on the couch. "Stick a knife in someone's mouth, Harl, and it becomes pretty obvious what kind of a person they are. _You_ are a person who doesn't care about anything or anybody, least of all herself, despite all your desperate claims to the contrary."

"That's a lie," Harley busied herself polishing her glasses again, and noticed her hands were shaking. "I have a home. Friends. Family – "

"You're saying these words like they _mean_ something," the Joker said disdainfully, rolling his eyes. "But they're nothing but sounds in your mouth, there's nothing in your eyes. It all means shit to you. That makes me wonder about you, Har_leen_ Quin_zel_." His mouth quirked. "Which is a compliment, by the way. I generally don't give a damn about people." His eyes roamed up and down her. "Why does a beautiful young graduate of Gotham State…. with what I must _humbly _assume is a very _important _case assignment, in a very _lucrative _professional placement... not give two shits whether Gotham's most feared criminal plays dentist on her pretty face?"

Harleen considered that. "If I tell you," she said, "That's it from me, about my life. I'm not going to let you turn this into Silence of the Lambs. We talk about you from now on."

The Joker made an expansive gesture, all gentlemanly manners. "Anything you like. Just assuage my curiosity. I really want to know."

"I… didn't get this job based on my resume," Harleen said carefully, after a second.

The Joker lifted an eyebrow. "Which means… what exactly?"

"Doctor Arkham is also a fan of Harlot Red," Harleen said dryly. "Shall we move on?"

"Now, hold up a second," the Joker said, raising a hand. "You get one job via feminine wiles, illicit means, so what. This is Gotham. It's expected. You've still got a degree from the town's finest university."

Harleen hesitated, staring at her hands. "I… didn't get that degree based on my credentials, either."

"Whoa," the Joker said. His eyebrows shot up. "That's a little more serious. How far back does the chain of wicked seduction go? High school?"

"My grade ten math teacher," Harleen admitted in a shamed whisper. "I was failing his course. Even then I knew I wanted to be a doctor. I had to pass. I had no choice." She shook her head. "Somewhere along the line," she said slowly, carefully, "It stopped meaning anything. The successes, the failures, were all the same. I just wanted to be a doctor. I don't even know if I had to do it," she said thoughtfully, more to herself than him. "Eventually, sleeping with them was just habit. I didn't try to do the schoolwork, didn't bother to see whether I'd fail. I mean…" she faltered. "Is it easier to study for months in the hopes of a passing grade, or sleep with the department head and know you'll get an A? I was very nearly at the top of my class, and it all meant nothing."

The Joker shrugged. "You don't have to be so torn up about it," he said. "You're not the first stupid girl to make her way any way she could."

"I'm not stupid," Harleen snapped. She'd heard that one too many times.

The Joker shrugged again. He leaned back on the couch. "Well, beautiful, I'm not crazy," he said with a shrug. "But you try finding someone who'll believe us. Anyway, I have to ask. Why'd you want this job so badly, if that's what you had to do to get it?"

"Because I believe in people," Harleen said firmly. "That part's true. I really believe in people, care about people. The good in them. The joy in them."

The Joker watched her. "How can you believe in people," he said slowly, "When you know perfectly well there's no joy or good or life in you?"

Harleen shrugged. "I'm just not a very happy person," she said. "I never have been. I've gotten used to it; it's how I am. But Gotham is full of noble, good people. Look what happened on the boat."

"What happened on the boat," the Joker sneered, "Is that Gotham took a _vote_ on whether or not to commit mass murder. That doesn't sound very good or noble to me. And may I inquire as to the results?'

Harleen stared at her feet. "It was about three hundred for, a hundred against," she admitted, and the Joker cackled. "That's not what's important," she said fiercely. "That's not what makes those people good. _No one_ was willing to use that detonator."

The Joker snorted. "Please, Harley. That's your idea of a happy ending? They vote to kill, then aren't able to do it? Three hundred people willing to let someone else destroy the other ferry, and three hundred people who couldn't do the job themselves. That doesn't make them good or noble. That makes them cowards."

"Well, what were we supposed to do?" Harleen said sharply. "I'm not an idiot. Those detonators were hair-triggered. If we blew up the other ferry, the other detonator would be destroyed, and I'm pretty willing to bet that would blow our ferry up in turn, despite all our best efforts to save ourselves."

The Joker giggled. "Oh, poor Harley. It wasn't just all about caring about people after all, is it? You really thought this through. Cheer up," he said, seeing her stricken expression. "At least you _thought_ of that. Three hundred people didn't. That makes them _idiots_, as well as cowards."

"I think we're about done here," Harleen muttered, picking up her purse.

"How the time flies," the Joker said. He reached into his prison uniform, pulled out a leaf of paper covered with crabbed writing, and handed it to Harleen with that red pumpkin-gash smile. "Do me a favor, will you? Give this to Pamela. It's rather important. I'm, um… I'm letting her down gently."

Harleen folded the paper and put it in her purse. "I don't really know where to find her," she said doubtfully, as she rose.

"Don't worry," the Joker said, waving her a cheerful goodbye. "I'm pretty sure she'll find you."


	6. Apples

Harleen's sports car pulled into Arkham almost before dawn did

Harleen's sports car pulled into Arkham almost before dawn did. She disembarked and then stood in the parking lot, hoping, gambling that the Joker had been right.

She needn't have worried. Before long, the deserted sea of asphalt flickered with movement, and Harleen caught the rustle of a trench coat. "Pamela?" she called gently to the figure edging along the sidewalk. The redhead's gait was as nervous and timid as a wild animal; Harleen avoided making sharp movements, approaching Pamela as slowly as she would a doe.

Pamela's eyes were narrow and apprehensive under her wide-brimmed hat. "…Harleen?" she said, after a second.

"Hi," Harleen said softly. "Did I startle you?"

"No," Pamela said, too quickly, chin in the air. "It's just – I expected – " she paused, as though expecting Harleen to cut her off. Harleen simply waited, watching her. After an awkward pause, Pamela cleared her throat. "I should go," she said.

"How convenient," Harleen said. "I was just stepping out for a coffee. You can come with me."

Pamela bit her lower lip. Her angelically pale face was uneasy, green eyes snapping with distrust. "I don't think so," she said at last.

"I gave him the roses," Harleen said coolly. "You don't want to return the favor?"

Pamela's mouth dropped open at the very idea she might seem ungrateful. "No, it's not that. It's just – "

Harleen did cut her off, this time. "Come with me for coffee," she said. "We'll talk. He gave me something to give to you."

OOO

Pamela was remarkably easy to maneuver, once you sat her in front of a chamomile tea and apple scone in one of Gotham's nicer cafes. The redhead took tiny bites, eating the scone so fast that Harleen wondered if she was underfed. It would explain her willowy frame. "Thank you for bringing me here," the shrinking violet said shyly.

Harleen smiled back, as warmly as she could, but in fact she too felt off-balance -- Pamela's extraordinary beauty awed her. The woman's delicate features, coltish legs, emerald green eyes beggared belief; were old-fashioned, unreal. Pamela, Harleen thought, looked as though she'd accidentally wandered out of some black-and-white movie from the Forties and was now desperately trying to figure out how to get back to the celluloid world before she got run over by an SUV. "It was no problem, so please don't mention it," she said. She pulled the Joker's note from her purse. "He sent you this."

Harleen hadn't read the Joker's letter to Pamela. She didn't think it was right. And moral concerns notwithstanding, his writing was spidery and indecipherably black – she couldn't even make out the salutation that headed the page. She handed the letter to Pamela, who took it with trembling fingers, glanced at it briefly, and slipped it into her suede purse. "Thank you," she said gratefully.

"Don't mention it," Harleen said again, sipping her cappuccino. Candy-apple red gloss stained the mug where her lips touched it. She pulled a prescription pad out of her bag and offered a blank leaf to Pamela. "Would you like to write him back?"

"Please," Pamela said, accepting Harleen's fountain pen. She scribbled away almost cheerfully for a minute, then folded the paper and slid it back to Harleen. "You'll really give it to him?"

"Of course I will," Harleen assured her. Pamela's last care package to the Joker had nearly killed her, but that wasn't Pamela's fault. She obviously hadn't thought. Harleen debated bringing up the incident with the vase, but decided against it. Pamela – whoever she was, and whatever her relationship to the Joker was – was a lead. The only leverage Harleen had. It wouldn't do to frighten her away. "So, Pamela," she said carefully, pulling out her compact to reapply her lip gloss, feigning distraction. "How do you know him, anyway?"

"Who?" Pamela said. Her voice was blank, but her expression was instantly suspicious.

Harleen resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Really, the other woman was hopelessly naïve. "Mr. J," she replied quietly, mindful of the other diners. "He Who Must Not Be Named In A Coffee Shop."

"Oh." Pamela blinked her long eyelashes rapidly. "We're business associates," she said, staring at her empty plate, covered with apple-scone crumbs. "We… worked with the same people."

"What people?" Harleen asked. Her tone could have cradled a baby bird, but Pamela flinched, looking away. "Hey, Red," Harleen said tenderly, hoping the nickname would make the other woman smile, at least. "You can tell me. I only want to help him. I only want to help you _both_."

"I don't know," Pamela said. She finally met Harleen's eyes.

The intensity of Pamela's gaze nearly jolted Harleen clear out of her skin. All she managed was, "I care about him, Red."

Abruptly Pamela's expression changed. She smiled slowly, lazily, coy and vulpine. Then she reached out one hand and carelessly grasped Harleen's, twining her long, artistic fingers through Harleen's small childlike ones. "Maybe I could tell you," she murmured. "But not here. Somewhere more… private."

Harleen's jaw dropped.

"Well?" Pamela said shyly – slyly? -- regarding her through those long, long lashes. "Shall we go somewhere else?"

"I – " Harleen's heart was beating madly. She stood up and nearly teetered as she tossed a twenty on the table. "I have to go." And go she did, blushing furiously, not sure what to think. When she arrived back at Arkham, she was still flustered, but no one noticed.

Well, no one noticed except the Joker.


	7. Perfume

"When was the last time you were happy

"Um, Harley," the Joker winced, "I'm sorry to have to bring this up, but… you're late."

"Hi," Harleen gasped. The heavy metal door slammed behind her. "I'm so sorry. I got – distracted." Harleen threw her coat over the back of her chair, fumbled with her clipboard. "It's okay, we can get started right away." She accidentally unclipped the binder in her haste; pages flew everywhere. "Damn it," Harleen spat, and dropped to her knees to begin gathering the pages. How on earth had she fit so much paper onto one clipboard? White leaves drifted all around her like autumn. "Damn it," she hissed again as she gave herself a paper cut, tears of frustration in her eyes.

"Hey, hey, hey. Shh. There's no need to be upset. Let me help you with that." The Joker got down on his hands and knees beside Harleen, began gathering up the blank looseleaf, the neatly typed sheets of his own case study. "I'm not trying to be hard on you," he said seriously as he squinted at the text on one sheet, then the next. "It's just that I'm, um, I'm a busy man and… in the future, if you have to cancel one of our appointments, maybe you could call ahead or something… I mean it's just – I've, uh, I've got things to do."

"Yes, no, I'm sorry," Harleen gasped, so embarrassed and flustered that she didn't realize he was joking. "It won't happen again." The Joker watched her hands flutter nervously over the papers, stared at the cut. She hadn't realized that it was still bleeding. Suddenly he reached out and gripped Harleen's arm, raised his hand to her mouth. Her heart hammered as he squinted at the thin red line on her wrist, opened his mouth as though he intended to… kiss it better or something. He didn't. Instead, he flipped her hand over, pressed her palm to his mouth and nose, getting the scent, like a wolf on its prey.

"Lilies," the Joker murmured, eyes closed. "You don't usually go in for the floral notes." He opened his eyes, and Harleen just sat there on the bare cement floor, in that paper snowdrift, like a child caught with the cookie jar. "Where were _you_, Harley the harlot?"

"I was with Pamela," Harleen said defiantly. No reason to be embarrassed. It was work. "I thought that we should talk. She sent you this." She jerked her hand away from him and filched through her purse. Finding Pamela's note, Harleen extended the paper towards him.

The Joker took it slowly, squinting. "I can smell her on you."

Harleen shook her head, sat up on her heels. "I have to ask you a question," she said, before he could enquire further about Pamela. "How on _earth_ do you _know _this girl? I mean, she's so… timid, and sweet, and you're… what?" She broke off. The Joker was laughing silently, head thrown back, chest heaving. "What exactly is so funny?"

"Timid and sweet? You really _are_ a _horrible_ psychologist. I didn't want to say anything, but…."

"I'm not bad, I'm just new," Harleen muttered, stung, staring at her hands.

"Let _me_ tell _you_ how _timid and sweet_ Pamela is," the Joker grinned, reaching into his prison uniform. He withdrew the card Pamela had sent him with the roses. "Uh, here's the first card Pamela sent. Where she suggests I _kill _you so that no one can trace the roses." Harleen's mouth dropped open. "Now," he continued, "I wrote her back to tell her you were too funny to kill, so you don't have to worry."

"So then why are you still writing each other?" Harleen mumbled, horrified, transfixed.

"Well," the Joker said reasonably, "She also wants to talk shop, and that, that's another story. So. What's Pam got for me today? The suspense is just _killing_…." He unfolded Pamela's newest letter, skimmed the contents. "Interesting," he murmured, and slipped the note inside his prison jumpsuit.

That, at least, startled Harleen out of her reverie. "What? What did she say?"

"Well, uh, I suggest you go ask her," the Joker said. "Don't worry. She won't touch you. I told her _exactly_ what I'd do to her if she did."

Harleen straightened her hair, pushed it out of her eyes. "I'm _sure_ she takes your threats seriously. You _are_ in prison, remember? Speaking of which, take a seat on the couch, please." The Joker lay on his back on the floor instead, folding his arms behind his head. Deliberately ignoring him, Harleen stood up -- tried to recompose herself, primly took a seat on her chair. "Let's try not to let this session be a _total_ loss. Um… how have things been going since last day?" Looking down on his face, finally, Harleen noticed that he still wore the makeup she had provided last time, now splattered and smeared.

"Can't complain," the Joker said cheerfully. "I'm out of solitary, and the guards aren't forcing me to shower."

"I noticed that when I came in," Harley said dryly. In the enclosed space, it was indeed very clear that the Joker hadn't bathed in days. Harleen tried to be repulsed by the smell -- musky, salty, animalistic. She did. She tried very, very hard. "I hope you're not planning to go much longer without a bath."

"Oh, not much longer, no, not much longer," the Joker agreed. "It's just, you understand." His hands fluttered like a conductor's over his face, the smeared makeup. "You get a nice makeover, you want it to last."

"Right," said Harleen, rearranging a few papers. "Okay, let's take a look at where we are here. I think last time we talked about – "

"We talked about you, mostly."

She blushed. "Well, yes. Let's try not to repeat that. Um, you mentioned – "

"We talked _so_ much about you that I've been stuck with _thinking_ about you," the Joker declared, smacking his lips distastefully. He was still staring at the ceiling. "It's like – you know how when they play a bad song, it gets stuck in your head and you can't shake it? You're like that." He glanced at her. "You," he pronounced solemnly, "Are like… the human incarnation… of the milkshake song."

"I could teach you, but I'd have to charge," Harleen said. "Let's move on, shall we?"

"So anyway," he continued, "I've been thinking about how miserable and depressed and depressing you are." Harley winced. "And you know, I just have to wonder… when was the last time you were _happy_?"

Harleen dropped her pencil. She bent quickly to pick it up. "What?" she said, and was surprised by the unsteadiness of her voice.

"When was the last time you were happy?" He regarded her steadily, unblinkingly, through those manic green eyes.

"That's very easy," Harleen lied, tucking her pencil behind her ear. She smiled at him. "When I got this j – "

"Lie." The Joker sounded bored.

Harleen could feel herself beginning to flush. She brushed her pale hair behind her ears again. "When I finished my Ph – "

"Lie."

"When my grandmother – "

"LIE!" His voice was suddenly inhuman, the howl of a rabid wolf, and Harleen's heart skipped a terrified beat. The Joker grabbed her by the shoulders, ripped her off her chair and slammed her into the cement floor; Harleen saw stars and blackness before her eyes.

She blinked dizzily; her vision cleared. The Joker knelt on all fours atop her, putting his hands around her neck. His knees pressed into her hipbones. "You don't care if I kill you," he purred. "But, believe me, you _don't _want the pain I'll put you through before you die. So think… very... _carefully_… about this one… because if you lie, I'll see it in your eyes." In _his _eyes, so close and worlds away, Harleen could see nothing – her own reflection, gasping and pale. "_When_," the Joker echoed, "_Was the last time you were happy_?"

There was silence for so long, for forever. Harleen gasped panicked breaths, the Joker calmly, fondly, waiting. She didn't know. She couldn't remember. "My high school prom," she whimpered.

He watched her.

"It wasn't like I was homecoming queen or anything," Harleen whispered. "I didn't even have a date -- there were rumors about me and the teachers, and no one wanted damaged goods. I didn't dance much. But I remember – near the end of the night – " She gasped a breath. His hands had loosened a little. "I went out on the balcony to get some air. I looked around at all these teenagers on the balcony, having sex, getting high, ignoring me, and I thought…." She trailed off.

"You thought…."

"I thought about how happy I was that those little bastards were going to pump my gas someday," Harleen blurted out, blushing furiously, and started to laugh.

The Joker stared at her blankly. Then he laughed too, uproariously, clutching his sides. Harleen convulsed with giggles beneath him, hysterical with shame and relief, holding her neck where bruises were already forming. "I kept my dress," she choked out. Her mouth hurt from smiling. "I've still got it now. My one proof that life has a point."

"Sometimes at night," the Joker said fondly, smiling at her, "I think about how I'd kill you. I do that with a lot of people, try to find that perfect punch line. But you, I don't know." He ran a finger thoughtfully, deliberately, down her arm, over her wrist. "Nothing seems to fit."

Harleen stared at him. "You think about me?" she said softly, charmed. She couldn't believe there was a man on this planet who thought anything of her beyond what was between her legs.

"Well, sure," Joker said. "But what I mean is I wouldn't actually _strangle_ you, I'm just teasing." He patted her cheek fondly. "You want my advice, Harley? Well, never mind if you want it, I'm going to give it to you anyway." His hands were around her neck again, but not choking her -- a gentle caress. "Burn it. Your _high school prom _is over, gone, dead. Finite. Kaput. All that dress is doing is giving you an excuse not to find some fun now."

Harleen stared at him. "What do you mean?"

"I think you know what I mean," the Joker said, climbing off her. "But it's time for you to go."


	8. Bruises

"Dr

"Dr. Quinzel!"

Harleen jumped, nearly dropping her things before recognizing the voice of Jeremiah Arkham. She realized, surprised, that he had called her Dr. Quinzel, not Harleen. Not because he had suddenly decided to recognize her talents; Arkham simply had company, and he and said companion were walking down the corridor towards her.

Harleen pushed her hair behind her ears. "I'm heading out for the day," she said, trying to smile. "Can this wait until tomorrow?"

Arkham cheerfully ignored her. "Mr. Wayne," he said to his companion, "This beauty is our Harleen Quinzel, fresh from Gotham State. She replaced Dr. Crane after his accident. She's working on the Joker's case. Dr. Quinzel – " Arkham turned to her -- "It's hard to introduce a man who needs no introduction, but this is Bruce Wayne. He's graciously agreed to organize a fundraiser for our renovations, so I'm giving him a tour of the grounds." Jeremiah glanced at Bruce. "What did you say it was going to be, Mr. Wayne? Some kind of party?"

_What a sycophant,_ Harleen thought, disgusted. She turned to survey Bruce Wayne. She'd seen his photo on TV, in gossip columns. In real life he was smaller than she expected, and his boyish expression contrasted oddly with his hollow cheeks and shadowed eyes. "I was thinking a Halloween thing," Bruce replied. He glanced at Harleen, flashed a casually brilliant smile. "Have we met, Harleen?"

"I don't think so."

Bruce Wayne gave here the quick once-over she always got, and always hated. "You don't really look like a psychologist," he said, with a rakish grin.

"Well, you don't really look like a millionaire," Harleen replied coolly. She nodded at a bruise peeking out from the unbuttoned cuff of his shirt. "Polo injury?"

"BASE-jumping," Wayne replied, a bit sheepishly.

Harleen tried not to roll her eyes. "Of course. Anyway, if you're organizing some kind of benefit, your timing couldn't be better. I'm sure you can tell that the Asylum's seen better days."

"Don't thank me," Bruce Wayne grinned, holding up a hand to ward off Harleen's admittedly facetious gratitude. "It was a purely selfish impulse. I'll sleep better knowing Gotham's criminals are behind thicker bars."

_And it isn't as though you don't need the rest_, Harleen thought, glancing again at the circles beneath Wayne's eyes, dark as bruises. "The idea isn't to keep patients here indefinitely," Harleen reminded him. "This isn't a cemetery, people don't check in forever. Our hope is to transform our inmates into productive members of society."

Arkham's smile froze a little as Harleen dared correct Bruce Wayne. "You'll have to excuse Dr. Quinzel, Mr. Wayne," Arkham said, simultaneously smiling at Bruce and glaring at Harleen. "Harleen's a real romantic. Hasn't seen much action."

"Action?" Harleen echoed, amused. "This is a hospital, not a battlefield."

Wayne regarded Harleen doubtfully. Through the chinks of his brat-prince armor, Harleen thought she smelled suspicion. "You're put your newest doctor on that Joker guy? Isn't he supposed to be nuts?"

"I work at Arkham Asylum," Harleen said dryly. "None of the patients I'm going take on will be especially rational, logical people. And 'nuts' is a bit crude, Mr. Wayne."

"Like I said," Dr. Arkham laughed, gripping Harleen's elbow hard in warning, "A romantic."

"No, no, she's right," Wayne said quickly. He flashed Harleen an ice-cutting grin. "It was the wrong word. So what's it like, working with that guy?" He struck a dramatic pose, saying in a theatrically spooky voice, "Has he revealed all his _deepest, darkest secrets_?"

What was it like, working with the Joker? Harleen thought about it. She knew what it was like. But what could she possibly say to these men? That she was benefiting more from these closed sessions than he was? That the Joker had forced her to admit she was dead inside? That his body was perfect, despite his mangled face, and that she'd loved the feeling of his fingers around her neck? He'd been so close to her. She could still smell his animal smell. Couldn't _they_? "He's deeply troubled, Mr. Wayne," Harleen said softly. "And much more complicated than you may have read in the tabloids."

"How complicated can he be?" Bruce Wayne said distastefully. "Guy's a killer."

Harleen bit her lip. "Yes," she said slowly, "But that doesn't mean he didn't have his reasons."

"Well, you must be right. I mean, I don't know anything about it," Wayne jokingly held up his hands in surrender. "I'm a businessman. Not a doctor."

"And I'm sure Wayne Enterprises is already feeling the strain of your absence," Jeremiah put in. "I was just walking Mr. Wayne out, Harleen, so if you'll excuse – "

"I was on my way out myself," Harleen reminded him, her voice a little brittle, and began tugging her coat on again.

"Hey, what happened to your neck?" Wayne blurted abruptly, staring at Harleen. Arkham followed his gaze to the finger-marks around Harleen's throat. Harleen could feel herself flush. She flipped up the collar of her coat to hide the bruises and smiled at the men, neither of whom smiled back.

"I fell down some stairs," she said, and hurried out.


	9. Clocks

Harleen got home late, always late. Time passed too quickly. Tonight she'd been shopping for a birthday present for her sister, an annual ordeal she loathed. In the end, panicking, Harleen had simply walked into Gotham Fine Crystal ten minutes before it closed and bought the most expensive wine glasses she could find. They were bland and ambiguous, the sort of thing anyone might like, and they cost Harleen whatever money she'd made that day. _At least she'll know I care. _Harleen's lips twisted as the saleswoman, who teetered dangerously on the edge of retirement, rang up her purchase.

"You want these wrapped up?" She asked Harleen, as the blonde dug for her credit card.

"Yes, please," Harleen said, nose still stuck in her purse. She found the card and handed it over.

The wine glasses were swathed appropriately in tissue paper and put in a wooden box stamped in blue with GOTHAM FINE. The credit card was returned to Harleen. "What happened to your neck, honey?"

"Nothing," Harleen snapped.

The saleswoman clucked her tongue. "Well," she said, "You tell Mr. Nothing he better cut that out."

Harleen grabbed her bag and left, not bothering to blush. She was still fuming when she rushed through the automatic doors of her apartment complex, stepped into the elevator to her penthouse. The elevator boy didn't have to be told the button for her floor. "Another late night, Miss Quinzel?"

He had a crush on her. Sometimes she thought it was sweet. Tonight it was annoying. "Yes, and I'm very tired," Harleen said briskly. Miraculously, the boy took the hint, and merely tipped his hat goodbye when Harleen reached her floor.

Harleen reached her apartment and resignedly began the needle-in-a-haystack dig through her purse. She could _never_ find her key. When she finally struck gold and managed to let herself in, she still hadn't eaten dinner, and the clock beside the hallway mirror claimed she should already be in bed -- it was tomorrow. Harleen opened her refrigerator, was greeted by the expected empty white plastic racks, and closed it again. Hanging the Gotham Fine bag over the back of a kitchen chair, she walked to her room, mindlessly went through the motions of a bedtime routine. She slipped into a black silk nightdress – light, the autumn was still very warm – hit the lights and went to bed, wherein she found she couldn't sleep.

The glowing red minutes on her alarm clock crawled by. Harleen watched them go, weary, wishing they'd take her with them. She was so tired. Countless times Harleen dutifully closed her eyes, but whenever she'd open them for morning, mere minutes had passed. The frustration made her want to scream. _A girl could go _crazy_ doing this._

Enough, then. Close to two, Harleen gave up, rising from her bed. She turned the lights on. There was no point to this. Lying there in misery would just worsen her insomnia; she might as well do something useful. Blinking in the stinging brightness of the light, Harleen pulled open her closet, tried to decide what she'd wear tomorrow. She wished the weather would cool. There was no reason for October to be so warm, and she preferred her winter clothes. Absently she pulled a sheer lace blouse from her wardrobe, pressed it against her torso, looked in the mirror. The color was attractive, but the cut was revealing. She wouldn't want Jeremiah Arkham to see her in that. Maybe she could wear a jacket over it until –

_Until what, Harleen?_

She put the shirt back in the closet, too quickly. There was a slight skittering noise outside. The top floor of one of Gotham's finest residences, and still, she had rats. You couldn't escape them in this city. Resigned to both her insomnia and her rodents, Harleen pulled a black velvet pencil skirt from where it hung beside her high school prom dress. She pressed the skirt against her, couldn't remember how it had looked, and stepped into the garment, zipping up the back. Staring into the mirror, she struck a pose automatically, pushing back her shoulders, standing up straight. The black velvet clung to her curves. She remembered Dr. Arkham's words. _No one worth impressing._

His mistake.

She slid out of the skirt and, not bothering to hang it back up, started looking through her arsenal for shoes. She was thinking something black and suicide-heeled.

_Creak. _

Harleen froze. That wasn't rats. She knew the sound of her own windows opening. Suddenly her mouth was dry, heart hammering. Fumbling with the drawer of her bedside table, Harleen dug under a stack of magazines and pulled out a can of Contre-Attaq. She'd bought it in Paris the summer after she graduated high school, knowing even then that she hoped to study in Gotham, and knowing even then that she'd need some means of self-defense. She hoped the spray still worked – she didn't know how long this stuff lasted, and the label was in French. Wielding the can before her, Harleen tiptoed to her doorway and stuck her arm around the –

Someone's hand wrapped around Harleen's wrist and prised the pepper spray out of her grip. She heard it drop to the floor. She hadn't even managed to press the tab. Harleen waited, too frightened to scream, to see what came next.

"Dr. Quinzel."

It was a demon's voice, rasping, inhuman. The kind of night thing children feared. "Who are you?" She whispered.

Almost gently, the hand drew her into her corridor. In the dark, she couldn't make out its shape -- black on black. Framed in the box of yellow light streaming from her bedroom, dressed in nothing but her black silk nightdress, Harleen squinted into the shadows, blinded. She reached with her free hand back into her room and hit the light switch, and only when her night vision adjusted did she begin to see. She made out his eyes first – bright, hard, and ruthless. Then the cape. Then the cowl. Then she knew.

"I need your help," he said -- if you could call it that.

Harleen could have laughed, except she would have cried. Did the Batman expect to fool anyone with a line like that? He had the voice of a demon and the eyes of a killer; his claim was underwhelming. A thousand sarcastic retorts flashed through her mind, but "Help with what?" was all she managed.

"The streets are being flooded with the Scarecrow's fear toxin," Batman growled.

"That's impossible," Harleen whispered. "He's been in a padded cell for -- "

Batman held up a hand. "It's a new variety. Dirt-cheap. More potent. Someone else is behind this."

"Okay," Harleen acquiesced queasily. She wished he would leave. She just wanted to go to bed. "Who?"

"I don't know." Batman stared at her. "I need your help."

Harleen gazed, wide-eyed, at the line of the Batman's exposed jaw – the only human thing about him. She tried to him judge by his skin, the shape of his mouth. How old was he? What kind of man, in the daylight? She came up with nothing. The Batman probably vanished at dawn, like other nightmare creatures. "With what?" she said again.

"They're forcing you to work with the Joker."

"I asked," Harleen whispered, "To work with the Joker."

"The timing's too good," Batman hissed, ignoring her. "He's behind this." Harleen swallowed. "Talk to him," the Batman ordered. "Find out how he's getting the drugs out of Arkham."

"_You_ talk to him," Harleen snapped. Her voice was shaking. "I'm not interested in getting involved in – "

"He knows I want the information," the Batman said quickly. "He won't let anything slip to me. Play naïve. Get him to brag. He won't know you're helping me."

Harleen wrested her trembling wrist from Batman's grip. He didn't attempt to imprison her again, just watched her. "I'm _not _helping you," she hissed. "I'm an adherent of doctor-patient confidentiality, so would you please just get out."

The Batman moved towards her, cape snapping. Harleen cowered back against the wall. She couldn't help it. As a psychologist, she recognized intimidation tactics. As a psychologist, she was discovering just how effectively they worked. "Please leave," she whimpered, closing her eyes. "Please just go. I won't tell anyone you were here."

Harleen felt a hand on her throat and flinched. It took her a second to realize she wasn't being choked. When she opened her eyes, the Batman had simply tipped her chin up, regarding her bruises. There was something – almost like pity – in his eyes. "Who did this?" Harleen didn't trust herself to speak. "Don't let him silence you. I can get you protection. He'll never find you. Help me."

"Protection?" Harleen tried to laugh. It came out shrill, almost a shriek. "Protection from _you_? You're a killer. You murdered Sal Maroni, almost killed Anna Ramirez -- Harvey Dent is dead, for god's sake, and he could have _saved _this city."

"That toxin is dangerous. People are dying."

"Jealous that you can't take credit for it this time?" Harleen said. She could hear hysteria in her voice. _Calm down, Harleen. He's just another Arkham. Better than Arkham – you're here in black silk and he still hasn't tried to get you on your back!_ "You want my help?" Harleen said. "Check yourself into Arkham Asylum. I'll take your case myself." The Batman watched her silently, eyes narrow as blades. "The people of Gotham believed you were helping this city," Harleen murmured, "And maybe you believed it yourself. That all changed when you started killing people."

Batman hesitated, then rasped, "Things aren't always what they seem."

"Tell that to Maroni's widow." Harleen could still remember the photograph in the Gotham daily. The Mafiosa had been too thin and tearful, a weeping willow of a woman.

"It's for the greater good."

"The greater good, whatever that is," Harleen said, "Bears no resemblance to a lunatic chasing a lunatic while Gotham fears them both." She looked at him; the Batman looked at her. Suddenly, Harleen felt sorry for him. Of course he wasn't a demon. Of course he didn't vanish at dawn. He was just a man, had to be, and there was pain in his eyes. "I know that Jeremiah Arkham lets you into the Asylum," she said. "The Joker told me. He had the bruises to prove it. I don't know why Arkham's aiding and abetting a criminal, but it's not helping you," she finished softly, looking him in the eye. "And you _need_ help."

"And?" The Batman said, almost sarcastically.

Which, at least, proved that he was human. "And I can help you," Harleen said softly. "I don't judge people based on what they've done. Everyone makes mistakes. Everyone can he helped." She turned, reached into her bedroom to switch on the light. "Why don't you come in for a minute," she began, "And – "

In the brightness, it took her a second -- and a final squeak of the window -- to realize that she was talking to the shadows. He was gone. Harleen sighed. She didn't bother calling the police, just turned off the light again and went back to bed.

So she had a rodent problem. What else was new?


	10. Keys

Harleen had gotten up on the wrong side of the bed, which was a feat, because she hadn't slept at all. Three cups of coffee before she even got in her car; her hands were shaking as she turned the key, eyes haunted and shadowed in the rearview mirror. She had to turn off her car stereo; the music was making her jumpy and nervous. Her state was not improved when she parked in the Narrows half an hour later. Harleen felt edgy -- neurotic, hair-triggered, her stomach twisting. _Bad night_, she pictured herself telling Arkham. He inevitably would ask what was wrong, why she looked like hell frozen over. _Had a prowler._

A prowler in a penthouse apartment? Arkham would never believe her. Or maybe he would. This _was_ Gotham.

She had trashed the Contre-Attaq, which no longer worked and seemed to have expired. Maybe she should buy a gun, Harleen thought. She got out of her car, sighing. What would she do with a gun? She'd probably end up somehow shooting herself in the foot. She'd always been told she was an accident waiting to happen.

"Harlee -- " Someone's hand fell on her shoulder, and Harleen realized how edgy she really was when she impulsively swung her briefcase at the intruder. To her own amazement, the blow connected. Whirling to face her assailant, Harleen's heart was pumping so wildly that it took her a second to recognize the brown coat, the wide-brimmed fedora. _Pamela._

The redhead held her shoulder where Harleen's briefcase had hit. Her wide emerald eyes were filled with tears. "What?" she said meekly. "What did I do?"

Harleen tucked a wisp of blonde hair behind her ear, regarding Pamela narrowly. Usually, the woman's wide green eyes were enough to inspire her to sympathy. They were certainly lovelier than ever now, brimming over with tears. This morning, however, Harleen found herself feeling rather less than compassionate. "What did you do?" she echoed, one hand on her hip. "What did you _do_? According to Mr. J, you wanted to _kill_ me. Now, I've had a _very_ long night and I'm not in the mood to have your bullshit, so why don't you cut the cutesy act and tell me what you _really_ want?"

Pamela blinked. Suddenly her lower lip stopped trembling, eyes no longer teary. The look on her face was something Harleen had never seen there before -- cool, collected, appraising. It lent a violently different gleam to those green eyes. Even the way Pamela stood and moved was suddenly strange and new -- less ingénue, more femme fatale. Harleen blinked, surprised and somewhat rattled by the speed of the transition. Audrey to Katharine Hepburn in five seconds flat. "This is between me and the Joker," Pamela said flatly. "It doesn't concern you."

Harleen rolled her eyes. "I don't have time for this," she said flatly. "You don't want to talk to me? Fine. But I'm not carrying any more messages for you. Find a new page boy."

She turned to go. Pamela grabbed her arm. "You know there's no other way for me to contact him."

Harleen shrugged her off. "Poor. You."

"What do you want?" Pamela said disdainfully, tossing her head. Her long red hair rippled like cornsilk. "An apology?"

"I want to know what's going on here," Harleen breathed, voice tight with annoyance. "I want to know what you and the Joker are cooking up. I want to know how you know each other. I want to know why the _goddamn Batman_ is showing up on my balcony at two in the morning. And since you want me to carry on being your messenger girl, Red, I'd say I have some bargaining material here. So why don't you get talking?"

Pamela regarded her narrowly. "Unlock your car," she said. Harleen obliged, not taking her eyes of the other woman. "Drive," Pamela ordered, sliding into the passenger's seat, her long legs folding up gracefully as origami.

Harleen revved the engine harder than she had to. "I have to be at work in ten minutes," she warned Pamela as she tore out of the parking lot.

"That's enough time," Pamela replied. She took off her hat and placed it in her lap, shaking out her hair.

Harleen took a hairpin turn hard, pressing her lips together in a thin white line. "So get talking."

Pamela stared at Harleen hard. "He trusts you," she said slowly. "He's made that perfectly clear in his letters. But I don't care what the Joker says -- if he's wrong about you, if you go to the police, I'll -- "

"Spare me the threats," Harleen snapped. "I'm not going to the police. I just want to know what's going on with my patient."

Pamela sighed. "My name is Pamela Isley," she said finally, stoically watching Harleen run a series of yellow lights. "I'm a botanist. I own a greenhouse. Slow down before you get us both killed."

Harleen leaned on the horn as a few slow-moving pedestrians skittered out of her way, picking up speed. Pamela's discomfort was paying her in perverse enjoyment. "Keep talking."

"You remember last year. The Scarecrow's fear toxin."

"Yeah."

"I helped him synthesize that."

"Bullshit." Harleen glanced in the rearview mirror. Some cabbie was cussing her out. "Dr. Crane worked alone."

Pamela scoffed. "That's what you people think. You don't know who Crane mixed himself up with. He was in over his head."

Harleen shrugged. "All signs say he worked solo."

"That fear toxin's key ingredient comes from a rare blue Tibetan flower," Pamela snapped. "It's an orchid varietal -- much too fragile to ship internationally. That's where I came in."

Harleen thought back to the reports on Crane's toxin. What Pamela was saying sounded familiar. "Why didn't Dr. Crane grow the flowers himself? Why enlist you?"

"Are you joking?" Pamela said disdainfully. "_That_ oaf -- raise an orchid that fragile? He's a_ man_, Harleen -- couldn't look after an aloe vera. His higher-ups connected him with me, and I agreed to cultivate the orchids for the fear toxin."

Harleen snorted. "Are you seriously trying to tell me you're a mob _botanist_? That's a bit much, even for Gotham."

"There was a need," Pamela shrugged. "I filled it."

"Okay," said Harleen. It was just crazy enough to be true. "So the Batman tells me Crane's toxin is still on the streets. Why?"

"Crane may be in Arkham," Pamela said, "But I still have to eat. I've been selling the fear toxin to the Gotham dealers."

"Don't you have to synthesize it first?"

Pamela shook her head. "It's a plant-based drug," she said. "Traditionally, it was smoked -- it's stronger that way. Scarecrow only treated it so he could distribute it through the water main."

The Batman had said the new toxin was stronger and cheaper. That covered the "stronger" half. "But Batman said you're practically giving it away. Why? What are you planning?"

"I'm not planning anything," Pamela growled. Harleen was taken aback by the frustration that seethed in her tone. "It's a valuable drug; it _should _be selling for more. Are you going to explain when you talked to the Batman?"

"No," Harleen replied cheerfully, and enjoyed Pamela's look of annoyance. "So why is the fear toxin so cheap on the streets?"

"The mobs won't do business with me. They won't even take me seriously," Pamela said bitterly. Harleen could see why. Pamela, with her movie-star looks and old world manners, was hardly the drug-dealer type. "They wouldn't pay me what it was worth -- not even _half_ what it was worth. I practically had to give it away. Now I can barely pay my rent."

"Did they say why?"

Pamela shrugged. "Their excuse was that they do business with Dr. Crane, not his employees," she admitted somewhat laconically, watching Harleen break a few more rules of the road, "And that until he came back and resumed his old position as a dealer, they were doing me a favor by conducting business with me at all."

"Did you remind them," Harleen said, "That Dr. Crane has caught a permanent case of crazy?"

Pamela sighed. "They don't actually care who they do business with," she muttered. "Now that Maroni's dead, they're all just vying for the top spot in the crime hierarchy. None of them want to be seen doing business with some girl from grad school."

"What's wrong with being a girl from grad school?" Harleen said, a little defensively.

Pamela rolled her eyes. "You work for the city, Harleen," she said coolly. "You're protected by gender equity laws. You don't have to worry about trying to get the old boy's club to take you seriously."

Harleen bit her lip. Now wasn't the time to tell Pamela just how wrong she was. "So where does the Joker come into this?"

Pamela paused. "They won't pay me for the toxin as long as Crane's alive," she said. "He's their excuse. So I'm going to send them a little message." Isley's voice was hard and harsh with hate. "Crane is going to die. And so is anyone else who refuses to take me seriously."

Her tone was so matter-of-fact and professional that a chill went down Harleen's spine. She pulled over on a Narrows side-street, staring Pamela. "The Joker…."

"I've never actually met the Joker," Pamela admitted. "I'm a great fan of his work, but I introduced myself on the card in the roses, never spoken to him in person. We've cut a deal. He's going to take out the Scarecrow for me, and, in return, I'm going to get him out of Arkham."

Harleen's mouth was suddenly dry. "Okay," she said. "I've heard enough. Get out."

Pamela blinked, wide-eyed once again. "What?"

"Get out." Harleen opened Pamela's door.

Pamela gawked at her. "You can't seriously mean to kick me to the curb here," she said indignantly. "This is the Narrows. Anything could -- "

Harleen calmly leaned over and pushed Pamela out of the car, the door slamming shut on its own as she pulled away with a screech of her bald tires.

_This is it,_ Harleen thought, as she sped towards Arkham. _This is what I've been waiting for. I've finally got it. Leverage._


	11. Patients

Harleen Quinzel bullet-sped down the Asylum corridor, stiletto heels snapping against the cement floor. The hand clutching the Joker's case file shook -- from five cups of coffee, no sleep, and a joyride, granted -- but also from anticipation. The Joker was going to talk to her like a normal human being, Harleen decided, as she pondered how to use the information she'd acquired. No more games. She was a doctor, and he was a patient, and their relations from this point on would be conducted accordingly!

Harleen nodded to herself. _Professionalism._ That was what was lacking in this relationship. That was the reason why bat-people were showing up on her balcony while she unsuccessfully tried to sleep. Well, that would be remedied. Harleen wasn't really quite sure how she was going to use what she'd learned from Pamela and Batman, but make no mistake -- she was going to use it. The correct course of action would simply... come to her. _And the first thing I'll do is find out what those goddamn scars are _really_ from._

Less than a minute before she reached the Joker's chamber, Harleen's heart quickened. Her hands were clammy. She realized, to her own amazement, that she was nervous for the first time in years. Or was it excited? It had been so long, she couldn't tell. _Thirty seconds. Twenty seconds til I see him._ And until he saw her. She'd worn the blouse after all.

"Hang on a sec, Harleen."

_Dr. Arkham._ Harleen's hands balled themselves into fists. She could have screamed, she could have cried, she could have killed him, she was so _close_! "Good morning, Jeremiah," Dr. Quinzel said sweetly, turning to face the Asylum director. "What can I do for you?"

Dr. Arkham didn't smile back at her. "Can I see you in my office for a minute, please?"

"Of course," Harleen assured him, moistening her lips nervously. "Maybe after I've eaten lunch? I have an appointment with the Joker, as you know, and his file -- "

"It can wait," Arkham cut her off. "Come on in here."

Jeremiah Arkham turned and vanished into the little room, and Harleen had no choice. Her heart plummeting down into her stilettos, Harleen followed him into his office. Arkham knew. He had seen right through her lies. _You fell down some stairs? What's_ that_? 'Mr. J' is right, you're a sad excuse for a doctor. _"Is something the matter, Dr. Arkham?"

"Close my door," Arkham muttered distractedly, seating himself and shuffling through a pile of papers on his desk. Harleen mutely obliged. "Take a seat," he said.

She did, and he began to talk, absently jiggling a pen between two fingers. "Mr. Wayne was quite taken with you yesterday."

Harleen sighed. "Dr. Arkham," she began, "I can explain. I didn't fall, I…" She blinked. "…What?"

"But then, who isn't," Jeremiah Arkham said. He shot her a rakish grin, his foot brushing accidentally-on-purpose against hers, under the table. Harleen quickly moved her leg. "That's my Harleen. You're a real man-eater."

"Excuse me?" Harleen said -- not so much offended as thoroughly bewildered.

"And therefore," Arkham said decisively, handing her a crisp black portfolio bearing no label, "You've now got another case on your hands."

Harleen blanched. "Will I -- "

" -- Still be with the Joker?" Arkham finished, grinning. "Oh, yes. You're not getting out of that. We've still got a deal." Arkham paused, his hungry eyes scoping the scalloped lace neck of her blouse. "Unless you're ready to…"

"No -- no," Harleen said quickly, holding the portfolio vertically to block Arkham's view of her cleavage. "I'm afraid I don't know understand what you're saying, Jeremiah. About the case, I mean."

"Yesterday, after you left," Dr. Arkham replied, "Mr. Wayne seemed shaken. I asked him what was going on, and… you remember that BASE-jumping injury?"

"The bruise on his wrist?" Harleen said. "It didn't look bad."

Dr. Arkham shrugged. "Apparently he hadn't realized it was so noticeable," he said. "When I asked about it, Mr. Wayne told me he'd had a bad accident."

"Extreme sports will do that to you," Harleen agreed, not very sympathetically. Absently Arkham reached behind him, poured Harleen a cup of that battery-acid coffee, passed it over the desk to her. "Thank you," Harleen said.

"So anyway," Dr. Arkham continued, "We keep talking, and this accident -- he apparently almost died."

Harleen nodded slowly, sipping her coffee. "That, combined with what happened to Rachel Dawes… Bruce's been having a rough summer, hasn't he?"

"Yes," Doctor Arkham agreed, "And to sum up my story, you're now in charge of ensuring he has a less shitty autumn. Bruce Wayne has purchased for voluntary psychotherapy sessions. He's requested you as a personal therapist for the duration of his visits."

Harleen's mouth dropped open. She had to stifle a mad giggle. Bruce Wayne? The crown prince of Gotham? Going to see a _shrink?_ "I -- please don't think that I don't appreciate the offer, because of course I do," she stuttered. "But Jeremiah, I -- I really don't think I'm the right doctor for this job. As you know, my studies were in criminal psychology, and _really _I don't think Bruce Wayne fits the bill. I suggest that we refer him to -- "

"Mr. Wayne requested your services specifically," Dr. Arkham interrupted her. "I understand your concerns, Harleen, and I'm familiar with your academic background. But that's all a little secondary, because on the other hand, Bruce Wayne asked for you, and…"

"And?..."

"And he's Bruce Wayne, for chrissake!" Dr. Arkham cursed, laughing. "Without the Wayne family's initial funding, there wouldn't _be _an Arkham. Plus this Halloween fundraiser… Harleen, you got to see where I'm coming from. We _can't _turn him down."

"I don't understand why this is even necessary," Harleen said despairingly. "Doesn't he understand that Arkham is a long-term residential facility, not a drop-in -- "

"Arkham's whatever he wants it to be," Jeremiah said patiently. "It's Bruce Wayne."

"And what about -- "

"Bruce Wayne."

"But Jeremiah -- "

"Bruce. Wayne." Dr. Arkham's expression hadn't changed.

Dr. Quinzel sighed. "All right," she said finally, sighing. "It's not like you're leaving me much choice. I want to go on record saying that I don't feel qualified to do this."

"Excellent,' said Dr. Arkham. "Forget about the clown for this morning. Now, don't look at me like that," he warned Harleen, as she opened her mouth to protest. "You can continue with the Joker again after lunch. I'll move your appointment. In the meantime, well… Mr. Wayne is waiting for you down the hall."


	12. Zzzs

What do you say to Bruce Wayne? Harleen chewed nervously on a cuticle, dragging her heels as she inched down the hall. How do you treat a patient whose every breath is reported by two dozen tabloids? How do you pretend to need a psychiatric history on somebody whose life story is the creation myth of Gotham? Maybe that was a little bit too dramatic. Maybe she should just take a deep breath. Maybe she was freaking out. _Maybe?_ "I wanted this job," Harleen muttered, and through sheer force of will briefly made herself believe it.

She was in Arkham Asylum's east wing, which had the advantage of windows and sunlight; the cells had given way to small private offices. Unsurprisingly, curtains were drawn across the window of Wayne's room. Harleen pulled a compact from her briefcase and checked her hair and makeup. She looked pale and drawn from her sleepless night, but it was nothing lipstick couldn't fix. Harleen pulled a new tube of Harlot Red from her makeup bag, then hesitated. Arkham had warned her about the makeup.

_Fuck it_. She was about to spend an hour in a very small room with Bruce Wayne, and she refused to go in there looking like death's bride. It was a free country, and it was none of Arkham's business. If Harleen wanted to, she ought to be allowed to come to work in war paint. Harleen quickly filled in the bow of her upper lip, dotted concealer under her eyes, coaxing away the dark circles. She checked her face once more in the compact and smiled experimentally. She didn't look miserable, exhausted and terrified, and that was all that mattered. Who said beauty was skin deep? Straightening up, leaving her fluorescent-bright smile sputtering on her face, she opened the office door.

Bruce Wayne was stretched out on the green leather couch, shoes still on, hands folded behind his head. "Mr. Wayne." He didn't respond when Harleen repeated his name. It was only when Wayne made a muffled snorting sound that Harleen looked closer and found that Bruce Wayne was, in fact, snoring -- fast asleep. "Oh," Harleen muttered, "Here's a grand new achievement in awkward."

Perhaps she should lie down and get some rest herself. Bruce Wayne's night could not possibly have been half as exciting as hers. _I could tell Arkham we slept together,_ Harleen thought, her red-glossed mouth twisting. That would go over well. "Mr. Wayne," she murmured again, reaching out.

Almost before her nails brushed the linen shoulder of his suit, Bruce Wayne had caught her wrist and was staring up at her with an owl-like intensity. Harleen, startled by the speed of his reaction, blinked at him, and he quickly let her go, his raptor's stare seamlessly replaced by a sleepy sheepishness that crept over his weary face, cracking it into an admittedly adorable yawn. "Hey, Dr. Quinzel," he said, the last syllable of Harleen's name stretching and softening into the ghost of another yawn. "You've got a, um... distractingly comfy couch."

"I wouldn't know," Harleen said with a smile, "I'm never on that end." She sat in her hard wooden seat, pulling the pencil from behind her ear and placing her clipboard on her lap. _Out of the frying pan._ "Late night?"

_A/N: I'm trying to get out of the habit of leaving rambling author's notes, but in this case, I do apologize for the lateness. I've just returned to school, I'm in a somewhat intensive program, and, well, I'm doing what I can. I think things are calming down now, which means _Agape_ is back in business._

_As a make-up gift -- _"Zzzs"_ is the last "teaser". In the next chapter, Mr. J is back._

_Locked Heart Ami_


	13. Cells

The door slammed harder than ever. Harleen crossed the cell floor in three steps, sat in her chair. She pulled the pencil from behind her ear, setting it to her clipboard. Her heart was hammering, thundering. She didn't dare look at him, or she'd lose all her nerve. Her mouth was so dry that she could barely speak.

So he spoke first, his voice a wince of pity. "You're late."

"My appointments today had to be rearranged," Harleen said briskly, ignoring the Joker's tone. She didn't look up. "I assumed you wouldn't have pressing engagements. Do correct me if I'm wrong."

"I thought we agreed that if you showed up late, you would, uh…" His voice started off uncertain, then it faltered, and resumed more harshly. "_I _thought we agreed that you _wouldn't_ show up late."

"No, Mr. J," Harleen said briskly. She scratched at her clipboard with her pencil as though taking notes, willing herself into that stance of professionalism. It was now or never, if she meant to make a stand. "_You_ told me that I wouldn't show up late."

"So, why…."

"Because your orders don't hold water in this asylum," Harleen said, continuing to etch at her clipboard with her pencil. She pushed so hard the lead broke, with a crack they both heard. "You're not my boss. You're a patient."

He was silent for so long that Harleen almost doubted that he had heard. But she refused to look at him. If he forced her to look, he had already won. "Okay," he said, finally, "_Doctor_." His voice was as tuneless as Harleen had ever heard it. "So, uh… since you're so -- businesslike -- now… what do you want to talk about?" It wasn't only that Harleen could feel his gaze on her -- suddenly, she could feel the quality of his stare change, turn wicked. "Uh -- do you want to know how I got these scars?"

"Certainly," said Harleen frostily. She posed her broken pencil above the paper, pantomiming professionalism. "Go ahead." Another silence dragged on and on, like nails on a blackboard. "Well?" Harleen snapped finally. "I'm waiting."

"Look at me."

"Don't order me around," Harleen's voice was imperious -- and shaky.

"I'm not ordering you _around_, Harl." He sounded exasperated. "How am I supposed to tell you about these _scars_ if you can't even _see_ them? Come on now. Look at me." Harleen stared at her graphite-smudged page. "Look at me," he ordered, and when Harleen refused he cursed and roughly jerked her chin up so that she had to meet his eyes.

He'd washed off the makeup. He smelled better. But his gaze was the same rusty razor as always. Harleen blinked, deer-in-headlights, down his million-watt stare. She was beginning to realize that it didn't matter if he was handcuffed, showered, placed behind steel bars -- a man who could look at you like that was as lethal as ever. "That's better," he said. He sounded amused, but his glare was like murder. "You're in a weird mood, Harley. PMS?"

"I talked to Pamela," Harleen blurted.

"Really?" The Joker removed his hand from her chin. He didn't look worried. He lounged on the hard couch languidly. "And?"

His apparent lack of interest caught Harleen off guard. "She told me everything," she continued. Perhaps the Joker didn't understand the power she held over him now. "She told me about Doctor Crane's fear toxin, and she told me about what you want from her. And about what _she_ wants from _you_." Harleen's hands were shaking slightly. She clenched them tightly in her lap. "I know you're planning to kill Crane," she said. The Joker regarded her coolly through slitted eyes. "Well?" Harleen snapped. "Say something. Don't just sit there pretending I don't know anything. I know _everything_ now."

But Joker ignored Harleen's demands, didn't speak, didn't move, until Harleen grew quite clammy with nervousness. When he finally spoke, she flinched reflexively. "So what do you want?"

"What?" Harleen snapped, caught off guard completely.

"What… do… you… _want_?" The Joker repeated. "You've gone Nancy Drew. That's nice. You're smart. Now that you know this stuff, what do you want to do with it?" He rolled his eyes when Harleen sat there, silent, not knowing how to answer. "Do you want _in_?" The Joker asked patiently, ticking the options off on his fingers. "Do you want_ out_? Do you want congratulations? A pat on the back, a medal, a cookie? Do you want to stop our heinous crime?" Harleen opened her mouth, then closed it. "If you haven't thought about the answer yet," the Joker said coolly, "I suggest you do. Because like it or not, now, you're in this pretty deep."

"I won't let you kill Crane," Harleen said, and waited for the backlash.

It came, but not in the manner she expected. The Joker winced backwards as though Harleen had slapped him. "Oh, I know," he groaned, screwing up his eyes as though he'd been poisoned. "I _know_. Of _course_ you won't let me kill Crane. Of _course_ you won't, of course _sweet_ Harleen couldn't let _anything_ like _that _happen." He opened one eye, then the other, cat-like and abruptly calm. "You know," he said, "You're boring. Unpredictable, and yet still -- somehow --_ boring_. This is the first time I've encountered that combination, ever, in anybody. It's driving me batty."

"Funny you mention _bats_," said Harleen. "Because if I ever catch you even _thinking_ of making an attempt on Crane's life, I will have Batman here so fast you'd think he was on call."

"Really. Okay. Well, let me ask you one thing, Doctor Harleen Quinzel, Harley of my heart." The Joker sighed. "Why do you even care? Why offer your protection? Crane's hardly your type -- if you've ever even _met_ him."

"This is Arkham Asylum," Harleen said, her voice a whisper, so quiet that even the Joker had to lean in to hear it. "The world 'Asylum' means more than just a hospital, J. It means sanctuary. Safety. An 'asylum' is protection, and that's what Doctor Crane is here for."

"But nothing's going to protect this city, or its people," the Joker pointed out. "You know that, I know that. We figured that out day one. Nothing protected _you._ So why does Crane matter? Why do you care?"

"I don't know," Harleen said. She sounded desperate, even to herself. "I just do."

The Joker paused. "Let me ask you something," he said finally, and his voice had changed. "When you were on the ferry, fleeing Gotham. Why were you there? I wouldn't think a girl like _you _would care enough to save her life."

Harleen sighed. She looked at the ground. "My family called me. They made me promise to leave. I was doing it for my -- "

The Joker roared in frustration. He seized Harleen by the shoulders, shook her so hard her teeth chattered. "Your _family_?" He was screaming, or laughing, and god, as he let her go, the world was reeling, she couldn't tell which. "You can't make up your mind to live, and you can't even make up your mind to _die_, because your _family_ calls you up and demands you save your pointless life so that _they_ can feel better? What has your_ family_ ever done for you, Harley? I've never heard you wax prolific." Harleen opened her mouth to reply, discovered that the second she did so that a sob issued from it, despite her dry eyes. She bent, hiding her face in her hands. The Joker seized her wrists and forcibly lowered her arms again to her sides. "No, you don't get to hide," he growled. "You're the only other sane person in this whole place, and you're not allowed the luxury of denying yourself that!"

"We have," Harleen bleated, twisting in his grip, "NOTHING in common!"

"They're crazy," the Joker said, and his gaze was a mindfuck. "We're not." Harleen was breathing fast. "Enough pussyfooting around the burning bush," the Joker said flatly. "The time has come for you to make a choice, Harleen. Here. Come here." His hands, still around her wrists, pulled her towards him, inexorable as limpets. "You want to see a magic trick?"

"No," Harleen said faintly, putting up a token struggle. "I've heard about your magic tricks."

"Oh, Harley, honey, you don't have to worry, you're much too pretty for that one." The Joker had dragged her onto his lap, one arm buckled around her waist so she couldn't squirm away. _One arm._ God, he was so strong, stronger than the straps on an operating table. "All I'm going to do is, um, I'm going to read your fortune. Okay? Tell you your future. Okay? Are you ready?"

"Let go of -- "

"Shh. Okay, Harley, honey, let's see what we have here. Hmm." He smacked his lips, staring at her palm as though it was a cut of meat. "So I see you're at a crossroads, Harley." He raised a hand, swami-like, to his pocked temples. "There are two different paths for you to choose from. There are two ways that you could go."

"What are you talking about?" Harleen breathed.

"One way," the Joker said, "Is the way you're going now. You stay Doctor Quinzel, Medicine Woman. For all the good that does you. You keep smiling when you don't mean it and laughing when you're supposed to and spreading your legs when it's convenient and everything works out relatively well for you. You marry some fat rich doctor who soaks you in sweat when he fucks you, pop out five or six little brats, and get old and ugly and eventually die having lived in your sad, safe little box your whole life and never -- even guessed -- what real freedom was like." Harleen's heart was going so fast that it was a hum, a purr, like the hearts of the mice she had dissected in high school anatomy class. "There's another path for you, though, if you decide to take it," the Joker continued. He glanced up at her. "The other way, Harley, is that you look around. You see that life has failed you. And, for once in your miserable existence, you decide to get some payback. You give this world what it deserves. You hurt it just as much as it hurt you."

As she sat there, clenched into the Joker's lap, Harleen felt a hardness brush against her leg, even through his prison jumpsuit, even through her skirt. So she did have a power over him, she realized, in a distant, far-off place in her mind. It wasn't quite the leverage that she had coveted, expected, but it was certainly the one she knew best. She shifted her weight against his stiffness, almost smiling, and he abruptly pushed her off his lap. Harleen, shell-shocked, crumpled into a heap at his feet. She didn't have the energy to get up.

Her heart, humming in her chest, trying to pound its way out of her ribcage.

"So it looks like you've got a choice to make, Harley," the Joker said. "And, er, here's the punchline. It's a real kicker." He bent over, and his face appeared upside-down over where she sprawled on the cement, a pale scarred moon. "Until you've made that choice, I'm going to refuse to see you. Don't try to see me. I won't talk. Pick your path, Harleen. Then we'll decide. And get up," he said. "Don't just lie there, you sad sack." Harleen drew her knees to her chest. "Fine," he said, and got up and pounded on the door until the security guards burst in. The younger one gasped when he saw her and, as the other wrestled the Joker to the floor, he lifted Harleen gently in his arms and carried her away.


	14. Masks

She was in somebody's arms. There was a dark ceiling, and then there was a light ceiling, and then there was a dark ceiling again, standing still. Harleen didn't move, just stared blankly at the hanging fan with its three light bulbs in the middle. She wasn't unconscious; she just didn't see the point of facing the world – not down to the twitch of an eyelash.

Maybe she could stay like this. She'd heard of that. They called it catatonia; a completely normal person just buckles under the stress, goes under completely, nothing ever reaches them again. A conscious, self-induced coma. Someone else feeding you, dressing you, bathing your naked body. It appealed to Harleen.

"Harleen."

It was Dr. Arkham's voice.

"Harleen."

Which wasn't really much incentive.

"Harleen."

_Sorry, Dr. Arkham. I'm making a career switch to catatonia._

"_Harleen." _But oh, _that _wasn't Dr. Arkham, and Harleen sat bolt upright. Just as quickly, there were hands on her shoulders, pushing her back down. _Fucking pest control problem I'll kill the fucking rodent and –_ and then Bruce Wayne's face shone out over her like a lighthouse beam. Harleen blinked, too startled to be relieved. "Are you okay?"

"Bruce." She didn't recognize the sound of her own voice. It was feeble, breaks between the letters, like a music box winding down. She stared at him. "I thought – thought that you were – someone else."

"Sorry to disappoint."

"Our session was this morning," Harleen murmured, sitting up on her elbows. "Why are you still here?"

"Mr. Wayne and I were going over plans for the Halloween fundraiser," said Dr. Arkham. "The guards didn't know where to put you, besides a cell. I told them to bring you into my office. What happened?"

"I don't know," Harleen lied. "It's all… I don't remember."

Bruce Wayne to Dr. Arkham, in an aside she wasn't supposed to hear -- _"Could he have slipped her something?"_

"_Impossible,"_ Arkham hissed back, with the same piss-poor poker face.

"You guys," Harleen said, "I can hear you."

Bruce and Jeremiah both instantly snapped their attention back to Harleen, looking like sheepish schoolboys. "Sorry, Harley," Bruce said. "We just – "

"What did you call me?" Harleen blurted out.

Wayne blinked at her. "What?"

"What the hell did you just call me?"

"I called you Harleen," Bruce said slowly. "If you'd prefer Dr. Quinzel – "

"You're a liar," Harley blurted, bristling.

"Oooookay," said Dr. Arkham, in a tone of _don't-pay-attention-to-her-she's-obviously-crazy_, "Let's not get overexcited, _Dr. Quinzel_. Bruce, we'll finish this another day. Okay?"

"Of course." Wayne rose, gathering up his coat. "Call Fox with any further details if you have any questions -- he'll put them directly through to me. I wouldn't worry too much, though. I tend to have a knack for this kind of planning." He winked at Harleen, who stared blankly back.

_For all he knows, I was nearly killed, and he's thinking about balloons for his party. _Jeremiah and Harleen watched him go. Without a word, Arkham rose and went to the coffeemaker, poured Harleen a vile cup and placed it in her cold hands. "Thanks, Jeremiah," she said, trying to smile.

Arkham didn't say anything for a second. Then: "I'm sorry."

Harleen blinked. That was a new one.

"I should never have left you on the Joker," Arkham said. He was regarding the floor between them. "I didn't take your concerns seriously. I was an ass. You'll be moved to a new case immediately and I'll take our celebrity myself."

"Jeremiah," Harleen said softly, genuinely touched. "You don't have to – "

"Come on," he said, helping her stand up and draping her black suede trench coat over her shoulders. "I've got your coat. I'll walk you out. You don't have to tell me what happened, but you're taking the rest of today off."

Harleen didn't argue. She followed Dr. Arkham mutely down the hallway, coat billowing out behind her, black coffee untouched in her hands. He held the doors for her. She was surprised to see, when they hit windows, that it was dark outside. "God," she murmured. "How long was I just sitting there?"

Arkham squeezed her hand. For once, Harleen didn't pull away. "For a while," he said. "Doesn't matter. As long as you're doing okay."

"Peachy keen," Harley muttered, staring into her coffee.

"That's my girl." He chucked her under her chin. Harleen wasn't quite sure how to respond. There was something almost paternalistic in his attentions, now. She bit her lip, regarding him. It was the strange thing about Arkham: he was such a_ nice_ guy. His children were adorable, his credentials as a doctor beyond reproach. Maybe if he'd never met her, he'd still be blameless, charming, everyone's boyish uncle. What was it about her, that turned men into such hyenas? Why couldn't she turn it off? "Thank you, Jeremiah," she said slowly. "For everything."

"Don't mention it." Harleen began filching through her bag, looking for her keys. Jeremiah grabbed the purse, closed it over her fingers jokingly. "I don't think so. You're in no state to drive. Let's just wait out here for a bit. If you're not feeling better when you're through your coffee, I'll call you a cab."

"Okay," Harleen said. She would have agreed to anything. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it," Jeremiah repeated, although he looked as though he didn't mind. Harleen sipped her coffee silently. "So," he said. "You want to hear what Mr. Wayne and I have cooked up?"

"Okay."

She didn't have to say anything; Arkham barely waited for her assent. "We're having a Halloween masquerade," he said. He sounded proud of the idea. "All Gotham's best are invited. It'll be the grand re-opening of Wayne Manor, and tickets are going to be upward of a grand. Which means anyone who's anyone is honour-bound to be there."

"Sounds nice," Harleen said. "I hope it goes well."

"It will go well," Jeremiah said, still sounding very pleased, "And you don't have to take my word for it. You're going to be there."

Harleen laughed. "Jeremiah," she said, "I have no complaints about my salary, but you are sadly deluded if you think I can shell out a thousand bucks for a night on the town."

"You won't be paying a cent of it," Arkham replied. He reached into the inside pocket of his suit and withdrew a glossy black cardboard square with white print. Harleen looked at it. It was a ticket. "I am hoping," Arkham said, with a frat-boy smile, "That you'll be going with me."

Harleen's mouth fell open. "I'm a lucky guy," Arkham said modestly. "I'll have the best looking date in the place. Here." He was fishing in his pocket again, and held up a black-and-white diamante mask. "I picked this up for you." Harleen was still holding the ticket and her purse, couldn't take the mask, so Arkham himself reached out and placed it on her nose. "I brought this back for you when I was in Venice," he said, and Harleen could feel the truth of his words – that wasn't cheap Halloween plastic brushing the bridge of her nose, it was stiff lace, delicate and beautiful as spider-webbing, and Arkham was tying satin ribbons behind her head. He stepped back and regarded her. "Beautiful," he said. "I thought it would be." Harleen's mouth had fallen open. She stared at Arkham from behind her black lace shield. He winked at her and laid an arm along her shoulders. "This is the part where you thank me."

"Thank you?" Harleen blurted out. "_Thank_ you? Are you_ joking_ me? Jeremiah, you have a wife. You have three kids. How's it going to look if you show up among Gotham's best with some twenty-something blonde hanging off your arm? Your professional reputation – "

" – Has nothing to do with who I'm dating," snapped Dr. Arkham, who suddenly looked less than pleased.

"Have you thought about how this would make your wife feel?" Harleen demanded. "Have you thought about what she'd say?"

"She knows I get what I want," Dr. Arkham said, his grin oddly flat in the darkness.

"Not always," Harleen said. "Not me."

Dr. Arkham cursed. "You know what?" he said, and the friendly, fatherly arm around her shoulders was suddenly pinching her collarbone so hard she could have screamed. "I'm getting a little tired of this virgin act, Harleen. Particularly considering your reputation. Certain promises were made at your job interview."

"I didn't say a thing about – _that_ -- at my interview," Harleen spat.

Arkham laughed. "How could you have? Your mouth was pretty full."

Harleen felt as though she'd been slapped. "No one," she hissed, "Has_ ever_ talked to me like that. If that's what you call romance, you've got a lot to learn about women."

"And you've got a lot to learn about men," Arkham barked, "Like the fact that you can't just promise things you won't deliver!" He was bruising her collarbone. She could feel it. He rounded on her, pushing her against the asylum's brick wall.

"Get off me," Harleen gasped, bricks scraping her back.

"Enough of the teasing," Arkham breathed back, hot and pig-like, on her neck. "You wouldn't even be here if it weren't for me. It's time you proved you're grateful." Harleen flinched, dropping her coffee – one of Arkham's huge hands was between her legs, pawing clumsily at her zipper. He didn't react as the boiling brown liquid splattered over them; he had one thing on his mind. _Like most men_. Harleen opened her mouth to scream and found nothing, nothing, just her fear and repulsion formulating an impotent whimper in the back of her throat, turning her stomach. Her black tweed skirt was around her ankles. Arkham stepped back to admire his catch. Harleen sprang for the parking lot, and the doctor grabbed her and threw her back against the wall, raised a hand and slapped her so hard her ears rang.

And kept ringing.

And then he wasn't touching her anymore. They were in the glow of white lights, illuminated like rutting deer, as the ringing turned in the blare of a car horn – over, and over, and over again. Harleen could see a figure in the Mercedes which had suddenly borne down on them, both hands down on the horn, sounding the alarm. She couldn't make out a face, but she knew the silhouette of that wide, Easter-Sunday hat. _Pamela._

Dr. Arkham cursed, gathering his things, and scrambled off into the night, clumsy and horrible as some poisonous spider. He left Harleen there, in her panties, in the glare of the headlights.

There was a long, bleak, bright silence as Harleen stood, staring at Pamela, whom she was sure was staring back. Then the noise of the car horn stopped; there was a faint click and the Mercedes' door swung open. Pamela stepped from the car, all willowy limbs and harsh angles. She took one long look at Harley, in the mask, in her panties, beautiful and grotesque as modern art.

Pamela set her lips. "Get in," she ordered, and Harleen did.


	15. Ribbons

Pamela was a more reckless driver than Harleen. This was saying something. Harleen watched dully through the black lace of her mask as they careened around corners, rattling trash cans and shaving extra lives off cats. "You should slow down," she said half-heartedly, as, in one quick hairpin turn, Pamela cut stopped traffic in two different directions.

"I don't usually drive like this. I learned from you," Pamela said bitterly. "Count yourself lucky if I don't conclude the joyride by dumping you in the Narrows."

"Go ahead."

"Oh, shut up," Pamela snorted, turning to face Harleen; she barely bothered to keep a token hand on the wheel as the Mercedes careened merrily ahead. "My god, the martyr act. Don't you ever get tired of it? What the hell is wrong with you?"

Harleen shook her head. What _was _wrong with her? How could she even begin to answer that question? "I don't know," she said finally.

"He was going to rape you," Pamela said, "And you stood there like a potted plant."

"I was asking for it," Harleen replied. She could recite the phrase by rote. She'd heard it all her life.

Pamela launched into an oath, and then cut it off, clapping a hand over her mouth. "You're tempting me into foul language," she said frostily, when she regained her strength and returned her hands – and at least some of her attention – to driving. "Very, very few people are capable of that. I hope you're happy."

Happy. "I don't even know what it feels like," Harleen said.

"A regular martyr," Pamela said, screeching to a halt. "Get out of my car. I don't want the stink of self-sacrifice getting into the upholstery."

Harleen blinked, trying to focus her eyes. "Where are we?"

"Your building," Pamela replied. Her voice wasn't quite as harsh as she meant it to be.

"How do you know where I live?"

"Let's avoid the clichés," Pamela said. "Just get out. Don't make me rescue you again."

"Why were you at my work?" Harleen demanded, although she did climb out of the car. She seemed unable to disobey a direct order at this point; after all, that would have required energy, thought.

Pamela regarded her through the window for a second. "I was waiting for_ him_," she said finally. "He's doing it tonight. Or so he says." Harleen's mouth opened into the O of her next question, but Pamela didn't wait; she closed the window and sped away, a blur of pure style against the Gotham night.

Harleen couldn't take the elevator back to her loft -- not looking the way she did, not tonight. Human contact seemed anathema. She darted around to the back of her building, to the fire escape; took flight after rickety flight of iron stairs, not daring to look down at the streets below. Once Harleen was dizzy with exhaustion, legs jelly, she finally recognized the window she peered into as her own. She sprang the lock over the glass and slid inside; it was absurdly easy to break-and-enter. She had really been asking for nocturnal visits, Harleen mused as she lifted herself over the windowsill. She was lucky it had only been Batman.

Her bare apartment was as bleak and stark and white as ever. Harleen stood in the living room, breathing. It was hard work. Would her body really do this all her life – heart beating, lungs contracting and dilating, until the day she died? It was no wonder she was tired, no wonder she could barely take another step. She was being slowly worn out, eroded by time, the way the steady lapping of the ocean carved away sea cliffs -- gentle and regular and merciless. Yet, when the phone rang, Harleen reached for it. Habit was stronger than her loathing of the human condition. "Hello?"

"Harleen?"

"Julie?" Her sister's voice warmed Harleen's heart. She shifted her weight, cradling the phone between her chin and her shoulder, as she closed and attempted to lock the window. "Happy birthday! How are you?"

"Today's not my birthday," Julie advised her, voice clipped. "It's tomorrow."

"I know, Jules," Harleen laughed, drawing her curtains. "Just thought I'd say it in advance. You didn't answer my question! How are you?" She could hear children shrieking. "How are the kids?"

"They're fine," Julie said. "Not like you'd know. You barely been down to see them."

Guilt twanged in Harleen's heart. "I know," she said, grabbing a granola bar from the cupboard and ripping into it. "Believe me, I know. I wish I could be home more often, Julie, I do." She could hear Carolee's voice. "How old are they now?"

"You don't even know that?" Julie sniffed. "Carolee's five, Melorra just turned three. The twins are with their father."

"Oh?" said Harleen. "That's nice. Where is Sam?"

Julie didn't say anything for a long second. Then: "I don't know."

He'd left her with the kids again. Harleen shook her head, taking the phone in her hand and stretching the kink out of her neck. "That's too bad," she said, trying to keep her tone light. "Tell him I said hi, okay? The kids, too."

"Why should I?" Julie snapped. "It's been so long since you been home, they barely remember their Aunt Harleen. By the way," she added, "Suppose you're not coming down for my birthday."

Harleen sighed. "I can't, Jules," she said. "I'm sorry, I really am. But work is just crazy." Julie didn't say anything, but her silence was hateful. "I've got you a gift, though," Harleen continued brightly, "And you'll be getting it in the mail any – "

"Forget it," Julie said. "I just thought I'd ask. Ma and Dad would really like to see you. I know you're too busy for us now, but maybe you could make it down for Christmas."

"Of course I'll make it down for Christmas!" Harleen said. "Julie – "

"I know you're embarrassed by us, now you're a big city girl and everything," Julie continued, "But if you can choke down that pride – "

"I'm not embarrassed by you!"

"Never mind, then," Julie said. She paused. "I'm expecting again, by the way."

Harleen stopped. Her heart sank. "Oh," she said slowly. "Congratulations." Julie and Sam's fifth. They were already on welfare. How on earth would they feed and clothe another child?

"Ma and Dad are thrilled," Julie said defiantly.

"I bet they are, Jules," Harleen said quickly. "I am too. Do you know if it's a girl or a – "

"Ma and Dad_ love_ their grandchildren," Julie continued, pointedly. "They always say so. I wish you'd remember that. It breaks their hearts you don't want to make them happy."

"I do want to make them happy, Jules," Harleen said softly. "But I'm not ready for kids."

"Oh, I know, we've all heard it before," Julie snapped. "You and your big city job and your big city boyfriends and you can't even come back to see your nieces for my birthday. I understand, Harleen, course I do. We all do. Happy Halloween. Talk to you later, when you aren't so busy."

The line went dead. Harleen stared at the phone, still humming in her hand. She dropped it on the floor, didn't even bother to put it back in the cradle. Julie was pregnant again. Of _course _Julie was pregnant again. Well, that meant that she wouldn't be drinking; those wine glasses Harleen got for her birthday were expensive, gift-wrapped junk.

Harleen untied the back of Arkham's Venetian mask. She placed it on her kitchen table. Then, hardly knowing what she was doing, she grabbed the bag from Gotham Fine off the back of the chair, lifted it, and hurled it against the far wall. It crashed with a bell-like tinkle. Walking slowly, the way one does in dreams, Harleen walked to the beribboned box, opened it. Julie's wine glasses had been reduced to grapeshot. With one numb hand, Harleen lifted the biggest piece of the wreckage, stared at it, then – still moving slowly, dreamlike -- she placed it against her wrist.

It would be so easy.

But it didn't feel right.

Still in slow-motion, she moved the piece of broken crystal to the corner of her mouth. That felt better, the memory of being there, in his arms. But it still wasn't right, wasn't what she wanted. She had no desire to open up a vein, or to slash her face open. Well, then, what _did_ she want? Harleen asked her body, waiting for it to move of its own accord. She wasn't surprised when it – she – rose from her crouch and, crystal knife in hand, strolled into the bedroom. She stopped in front of the closet and opened it. Slowly, deliberately, Harleen ran a hand along her fine things – silk and velvet, black and white and red, all so fashionable, up to the minute. Her hand settled on something in the back, and Harleen waited to see what she snared, pulling the garment into the light. She blinked.

Her prom dress.

Harleen laid the gown on her bed, smoothed the creases from it with her free hand. That really had been a wonderful night, she thought fondly, and raising the crystal blade, she brought it down across the dress hard. The cloth sliced as easily as wedding cake, black net crinoline showing through the red. She lifted the crystal again and again, slashing, hacking, reducing her nostalgia to tatters and ribbons. It felt wonderful. And then Harleen understood, with the same flash of brilliance she had always associated with discovery. Archimedes – the invention of the wheel – Einstein, EMC2. It was genius, _genius_. And it was so _simple_.

She didn't want to die. She wanted everyone else to.

000

How she got there doesn't matter. There are a thousand ways it could have happened. She bribed a guard, stayed out of sight, she snuck in a back door; choose one. Harleen couldn't have told you herself. What matters is that the door to the Joker's ultra-secure cell slammed shut, and she was inside.

The Joker started, then – he had been asleep. Who would have imagined he slept? He opened one eye, lazily, and then opened the other when he saw Harleen. He looked surprised. Another first. More leverage. Harleen giggled. "Well," he said finally, watching her in her suede coat. "To what do I owe this… _honour_?"

In answer, Harleen began undoing the buttons of her coat. It wasn't a striptease. She was just taking the jacket off -- slowly, because her hands shook if she tried to do the buttons too fast. The Joker just watched her, silent, his eyes leonine with sleep. Finally the trench coat was open. Without a word, without guile, Harleen let it slip to the floor. She was clad only in the corpse of her prom dress; little more than ribbons, with a zipper in the back. Dead red, with black showing through, and also the white of her skin, the cream and rose of her breasts. It covered nothing. "I had one bad day," Harleen said. The Joker rose and walked towards her.

His hands were gentle and sweet, which was as she expected. Truly evil men know how to cause pleasure, as well as pain. And oh, there was pleasure in his touch, in his kiss. Harleen's heart quickened, she could feel herself flush, and at first she was convinced she was having a heart attack -- that she was going to die here, now, on the floor of the Joker's cell. One last, sad day in the life of the Jersey girl. And then she realized, no. She was just enjoying herself. That was right; _this_ was what happiness felt like. It had been so long, it knocked her legs out from under her, left her useless. She began to laugh, helplessly, and the Joker must have understood, because he did the same.

"So I heard you want to visit Crane," Harley said. "I think that's a _wonderful _idea. He might not want to let you in, so I brought an extra key."

"That's _extremely _thoughtful of you," said the Joker. "I do appreciate it. Really."

Harley snuggled into his shoulder, almost a slow dance. "Anything, Mr. J."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa," the Joker said suddenly. He grasped her shoulders, held her out stiffly at arm's length, looking horrified. "Wait, wait. No, no, no. Wait. This is no good. This is all wrong. My god." He ran a frenzied hand over his brow. "My god."

"What?" Harley said desperately, trying to struggle out of his grip, god, she just wanted to be pressed against him. "What? What's the matter?"

"This _dress _you're wearing," the Joker said, scandalized. "Do you _realize_ that I can _see your panties_?"

Harley stared at him, rolled her eyes, and dissolved into helpless giggles. He let go of her shoulders and she raised her arms, twirled for him in her rags, and he saw more than her panties, he saw everything. She wanted him to. She _wanted_ him to. She wanted_ him_. What a strange feeling, what a wonder. She _wanted_. It carried her away, left her ecstatic and soaring. The Joker, in the meantime, was pounding on the walls and door with the heels of his hands, with his forearms, like some crazed voodoo witchdoctor possessed, dancing, in the middle of ritual.

"Have you _seen _this girl?!" he howled, demanded of no one, panting, tongue lolling out like a rabid dog. "Have you _seen _Harley Quinn?!" His hands were beginning to bleed. "_THIS GIRL IS DRESSED TO KILL_!"


	16. Sunshine

Harley strolled into work the next day around noon. She didn't feel too badly about being late. Really, they were lucky she had made it in at all. She could barely walk, after the previous' nights recreation.

Arkham Asylum, she noticed as she pulled into the lot, seemed to be undergoing some kind of kerfuffle. There were police cars parked in a neat little row in front of the building. Harley groaned; they had taken all the parking spots closest to the door. With a half-irritated, half-satisfied little sigh, Harley stopped her car (across two spaces; she was tired of coloring in the lines.) She disembarked, slammed her door, and leaned down to check her makeup in the side-view mirror; mascara, powder, and lips polished and glossed to a perfect cherry sheen. Harley smiled, scratched a bit of lipstick off a front tooth, and ambled amiably into Arkham Asylum, a plain manila envelope in one hand and her purse in the other. She was immediately nearly bowled over by a reporter, of all things.

"Hmm," said Harley.

Truth be told, she had been hoping to make a grand entrance, but there were cops and reporters everywhere, and the Arkham staff looked uniformly distracted, frazzled, and panicked. No one noticed her, so Harley caught a random elbow as it rushed by; it turned out to be attached to Joan Leland. Joan stared at Harley, panting, and clutching a clipboard like a life preserver.

"Hey, Joanie," said Harley sympathetically, tucking a lock of the doctor's black hair back behind her ear. "What's going on?"

"Where have you been?" Joan blurted out. "You haven't heard?"

"I'm presuming no," said Harley, lifting an eyebrow as some Anna Ramirez-lookalike nearly steamrolled them both.

"Watch where you're going, Montoya!" Joan yelled at the woman's retreating back. Harley almost laughed. Joan had always been the snappish type, but this was taking it to a new level. "You'd better go talk to Jeremiah, Dr. Quinzel," Joan said crisply, smoothing the front of her white coat.

"Yeah," said Harley easily, "That's the plan. Do you know where he is?"

Joan jabbed a finger off into space. Harley glanced in the direction she was pointing. Dr. Arkham was surrounded by a hyena pack of journalists and cops, speaking into five microphones at once, tie undone, shirt untucked. Even from yards away, Harley could make out the dark circles under Jeremiah's eyes. "Somebody forgot to sleep," she murmured.

"Would you have slept, in his shoes?" Joan said sharply.

"Probably not," said Harley. "They'd be a bit too big for me and I imagine they'd pinch. Excuse me, Joanie."

She sidled away from Dr. Leland and up to Arkham's side. He didn't seem to notice her, just continued to address the reporters. "— Police Department is already on his trail and, I assure you, it's a matter of a _very_ short period of time before he's re-apprehended and behind bars again. Persecution for further crimes will begin at that time. Until then, citizens are advised to remain calm – "

"Well hey, Dr. A," said Harley innocently from his side. "You look busy."

Arkham glanced down at her, away, and then suddenly down at her again, eyebrows shooting up. Harley giggled. It was the first time she had ever seen a for-real, genuine double-take. "Harleen," he gasped, and suddenly turned back to the reporters. "You know what?" he said. "No comment. Go interview Commissioner Gordon or something."

They didn't seem to be getting the message, so Harley added, "Shoo," whisking the pack of journalists away with her hands. They reluctantly backed off; Harley squinted at them as they retreated. "One of those guys is from the Daily Planet," she noticed, as the bespectacled reporter patiently attempted to get a polysyllabic response from the taciturn Officer Montoya. "Nice."

"Harleen," Arkham croaked, "I am so, so sorry. About last night. I don't know what came over me. If I – "

"Don't even think about it, Jeremiah," Harley said, with her sweetest smile. "What happened, happened. You obviously have bigger things to worry about this morning. Sorry I'm late and all that, but sugar, _what_ is going on?"

Arkham's jaw dropped. "Are you serious?" he said. "You haven't heard?"

"No, and no," Harley said. "Care to fill me in?"

Arkham sagged where he stood, holding the wall for support. "The Joker broke out last night," he said quietly. "He killed Crane. If _killed_ is even the word I should use for it."

"Is Crane dead?" Harley asked curiously.

"What?" said Arkham. "Yes."

"Then _killed_ is the right word," Harley replied, with a reassuring smile.

"That's not funny," said Arkham stiffly, "And it's not what I meant. I mean, god, _Scarecrow_ is right – Joker ripped the man apart, wired him up, wrote in blood all over the walls. Joanie found the body. It took three hours for her to just stop crying."

"_Oh_ my _god,_" Harley said, trying not to laugh, "That's so _horrible._ I'm _so_ sorry, Jeremiah."

Arkham nodded seriously, his face all scrunched up with pain. "We'll get him, though," Arkham added with noble sobriety. "Sooner or later, we'll get him."

"Sure you will, sugar," Harley said, her eyes rolling of their own accord. "Well, look, you're obviously busy here, so I'll be out of your hair in a second. I just wanted to give you this." She handed him the manila envelope.

Arkham looked at the envelope, then at her. He blinked. "What is this?" he said.

"My two weeks notice," Harleen replied. "Well, more like my two hours notice. I won't be coming in to work again. It's been fun."

"What?" Arkham said, gaping at her.

"Poor man, are you going deaf?" Harley said sympathetically. She said it again very slowly and clearly, enunciating carefully and making up her own sign language to go along with the declamation. "I. Am. Quitting. I'll See You. Later."

"Excuse me?" Arkham sputtered. His face had grown dark and threatening, and he brandished the envelope back at her, as though he intended to strike her with it. "Who do you think you are? You can't just walk out on us now."

"The funny thing about that," said Harley, "Is that I kind of can."

"Do you realize I could destroy your career?" Arkham blustered. "You can't just leave us in the lurch now. We need you here. Are you joking me?"'

"Not yet," Harley replied, and she turned around and walked out. "'Scuse me," she muttered as she brushed past the Daily Planet guy.

In the quiet and sun outside, Harley took a deep breath, smiled, lifted her face to the sun. It was such a beautiful day, she mused as she pushed on a pair of sunglasses from her purse. It felt like June, not October. There was really only one thing that could make such a perfect morning any better. And if she guessed correctly –

That streamlined silver-screen Mercedes pulled up in a matter of minutes. Pamela rolled down the window and leaned out. "Lovely weather we're having," she called.

"Good timing," said Harley wryly. "I don't recall telling you I'd be here."

"Ha, ha," said Pamela. "It's nice to see you in a better mood. Get in." She popped the door beside her. "Cute skirt," Pamela added, as Harley slid into the front seat. "Did you make that from a handkerchief?"

"You're an extremely rude woman," Harley informed her, propping her long bare legs up on the dashboard. She wiggled her toes in her open-toed stilettos to annoy Pamela. "I can wear whatever I want."

"And I can enjoy the view," Pamela agreed innocently. "But if you start painting your nails in my car, I promise I'll kick you to the curb."

"Sure thing, mummy dearest," Harley said, rolling her eyes. Pamela keyed the ignition. "So where are we going?"

"My place," Pamela said. The pavement flew by beneath them. "I've got a guest. And we've got some _killer _plans for tonight. Want to tag along?"


	17. Shots

"This is my car," said Pamela. "Why am I in the backseat?"

"Think of us as your chauffeurs," the Joker suggested, picking up speed as he systematically ran red lights.

A taxi driver flipped them off. Harley smirked. She was reclining, sideways, in the passenger seat of Pamela's Mercedes, her legs stretched across the Joker's lap, the back of her head resting on the frame of the open window. The wind ripped at her blonde braid.

"I don't need a chauffeur," said Pamela. "I need to stop driving with you people completely. You're maniacs."

The Joker glanced in the rear-view mirror. "Why would you say that to me, Pamela?" he inquired patiently. "When you just -- throw labels around like that, you know… that's something that hurts. And in the context of_ where _I'm about to go and _what _I'm about to do for you – " he took a hard right, taking obvious pleasure in squealing all four wheels – "The least you could do in return is, um, show me a little gratitude."

"Speaking of where we're about to go and what we're about to do," said Harley, "Are we there yet?" She smacked her gum, blew a bubble. Pamela leaned forward and popped it with a bobby pin. "Christ," Harley complained, picking bits of pink bubblegum off her face.

"When did you revert to being five years old?" Pamela sniffed, staring out the window at the so-called scenery flying by.

"Whatever," said Harley. "Mr. J? We there yet?"

"You should have gone before we left," the Joker said sternly, "But, as a matter of fact, the answer to your question is yes." He carefully smoothed his hair with one gloved hand, kept the other perfunctorily on the wheel. His eyes glittered in the moonlight. "Now when we get where we're going," he said, "This meeting has to move, uh, in a -- certain _direction_. So you girls stay quiet. Let me do the talking."

Pamela snorted. "Sure thing, puddin'," Harley said, shooting a quick glare at the redhead. Nobody spoke again, and the moonlight slid by.

000

The remains of Gotham's crime empires were sequestered in the empty warehouse, looking hungry and tired and less than impressed. It had been a bad year for Gotham's crime families, Harley mused. It had been a bad year for everyone. Even the faces of the bosses lining the shipping warehouse – Harley could only identify a couple -- looked sombre, joyless, and self-pitying.

Their moods did not appear to improve as the Joker sidled in: purple suit brushed down, hair combed, Pamela on one arm, Harley clutching the other. "Well, hey," the Joker said to the assembled men, in a tone that suggested he was surprised to see them, though he had called the meeting. "Sorry I'm late." No one spoke, but every eye was on the Joker. "What's the matter?" he inquired.

"What's with the girls?" snapped a tall man in a fedora, leaning against the wall.

"Oh." The Joker smiled broadly. He glanced at Pamela on one side, Harleen on the other, and then leaned forward and addressed the man with a confidential smile. "I know what you're thinking," he said, "I'm a total pimp. You can say it." Harley stifled her snort of laughter in the shoulder of the Joker's suit, then was surprised when she found she could feel his heart beating fast. Whatever they were doing, it was a big deal. "So," said the Joker more loudly, addressing everyone present. "I guess you're probably all wondering why I called you here." A thin man with a thin moustache shifted his weight. The Joker clucked his tongue. "I can see no one's feeling chatty tonight," he mused. "All right. We'll get this over with quickly. Pammie, darling, you want to just let them get a look at you?"

Harley had to give Pamela credit; the redhead didn't know any better than she did what the Joker was planning, but she followed direction so gracefully and smoothly that she could have written the evening's script. She smiled coolly at the Joker and stepped out before the assembled crime lords, removing her hat and casually shaking out her long red hair. Again, Harley was struck, hard, by how beautiful Pamela was – she looked like one of those ballerinas that turned in a music box, as though one had just casually thrown on a coat and taken a walk.

"Now I'm presuming," said the Joker, "That all you nice fellas know this girl." The man in the fedora spat on the ground. "This lovely young woman here, she's, uh, she's going to be helping your growing businesses to lighten your loads a little bit." Pamela slid off her tweed trench coat. In her green velvet sheath dress, she looked like a blossom bursting into bloom. Harley noticed several of the assembled men run their eyes over her, in spite of themselves. Not Joker, though. "In the future," Joker said, nodding cordially at Pamela, "Red here will be running this city's little – market of illicit pharmaceuticals and, you know, and so on -- and if you guys want to stay involved, well, you'll have to get her okay. Have I made myself clear?" No one answered. "Have I made myself clear?" The Joker asked again, with a wide, almost foolish smile. "Who's fronting the Italians now?" he inquired.

The thin man with the moustache stepped forward. "Alberto Falcone," he said in a clipped voice, extending a hand to the Joker.

The Joker blinked at his hand as though he wasn't sure what to do with it. "What's that, some kind of shampoo?" He enquired. "Actually, no, never mind. Look, I've just laid out a very simple and effective business plan for you people. Is the lovely Miss P going to have any problems?"

"We've seen this girl before," Alberto snorted. The men behind him nodded – though none enthusiastically enough to risk distinguishing himself from the others. "I tell you," Alberto said, jabbing a finger at the Joker – but stopping short of actually touching him -- "The same thing I told her. She wanders in and takes over, over my dead body."

"Oh, well, if that's how it's got to be that's no problem," the Joker shrugged, and drawing a Wesson, shot Alberto in the head. "Harley!" he barked, because suddenly every other gun in the place was fixed on him. Harley quickly grabbed the skirt of her dress and hoisted it above her waist, displaying the countless explosives strapped to her hips and thighs. "The detonator's on me," the Joker warned. "Take _me _out, and my lovely associate, Miss Harley Quinn – well, she's liable to react badly, know what I mean?"

No one fired. As the Joker made eye contact with the armed men, guns disappeared back inside jackets. "That's better," Joker said, grimacing, poking Alberto's body gingerly with his toe, and turning to Harley. "You know what the problem with these people is?" He said.

"No," Harley said cheerfully, popping her gum. "What?"

"They don't know how to _delegate," _The Joker said ruefully, shaking his head. "And, uh, you can put your skirt down again, by the way. Now." He turned, with a scarely-concealed snarl, back to the crowd. "Falcone's dead," he growled. "Maroni's dead. And, oh, if you haven't heard, Crane's dead. In case you people can't tell, there's a new sheriff in town, and he's setting some new rules. _Who's fronting the Italians_?"

There was a long, not entirely unwarranted, pause from the assembly. Then –

"I suppose that, now, that would be me."

A large woman, in a long black mink, stepped away from the wall. Harley hadn't noticed her among the others; she had been the right size and shape to blend in among the men. Not that she was fat – just tall and broad-shouldered. Actually, she was reasonably beautiful, with heavy masses of black hair and suspicious, sullen black eyes. There was a murmur from the men behind her, and she whirled and faced them in the moonlight filtering through the warehouse windows. "Well, what?" she snapped. "Any of_ you_ brave men going to come and do this business?" No one answered her. Nostrils flared in anger, she turned back to the Joker, and crossed her arms, and waited.

The Joker had lifted an eyebrow. "And who might you be?"

"Sofia Gigante," said Sofia. "You just shot my brother. Can we hurry this up?"

"Oh, I like her already," Joker said, delighted, to Harley. He grinned at Sofia. "So you've heard my terms already," he said, jerking a thumb at Pamela in her dress. "What do you think?"

Sofia sighed and ran a large, slender hand through her long sleek hair. "I think," she said, "I think that I must tell you... that we can do business."

"That's more like it," Joker grinned. He whistled, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops modestly. "You see? A little cooperation, everybody gets along."

Sofia turned to Pamela and looked her up and down skeptically. Harleen understood, then, that it hadn't just been Pamela's femaleness keeping her out of the crime cartels. She was simply a different breed. After all, Sofia was a woman, too -- yet, as the two surveyed each other, they looked like separate species. It didn't matter, though. The Joker was right. There were new rules in the Gotham corral.

"Fine," Sofia muttered finally, the word forcing itself out from between downturned dark lips. "Fine." She extended a hand, and unlike Joker, Pamela accepted the gesture elegantly, though her fingers appeared in danger of being crushed. "What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't," said Pamela, "And I don't intend to. You don't have to know my real name." She put her hat back on, smoothing her green velvet dress. "You may call me Poison Ivy."


	18. Bottles

"Poison _Ivy_?" Harley giggled, for what seemed like the twentieth time. "Are you _sure_ that wasn't your idea?"

The Joker shrugged modestly, filling her shot glass before attending to his own. "No. _Pamela_ apparently thought that one up alone." He shrugged and threw back another round of vodka. "Personally," he added, filling his glass, "I think it suits her. Here's to Gotham's first lady of pharmaceuticals."

Harley sipped her vodka, quickly chasing its bite with green apple punch from the 7-11. She felt warm and cozy in the haze of her drunkenness, of her love. "And here's to the Scarecrow. Wherever he is."

"And here's to you," Joker finished grandly, lifting the almost-empty bottle of Absolut, "My lovely assistant."

He chugged straight from the bottle. Vodka trickled down his chin, down his neck. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, smearing it with white greasepaint, and finally the Joker smiled at Harley, and she melted all over again. "Forget the glass," he said, and handed her the bottle.

She tilted back her head, finished the vodka. It only burned a little, but when she lowered her head again, the room moved too much. "Okay," she laughed. "Think I'm done for the night."

The Joker snorted. "I don't think so." Suddenly he had produced an identical mickey of Absolut, put it on the table between them. "Tonight we celebrate," he said. "You go to bed when I say so."

Harley blinked at the bottle. "Where did that even come from?" she said uncertainly.

"You may never know," Joker said, with an extravagantly absurd wink. He pulled on the bottle, then handed it to Harley. "Bottoms up."

Harley obliged, and the world grew a little more sparkly. "So this is where the great Joker lives," she mused, glancing around the motel room. It wasn't as seedy as she had expected. The Joker had purchased anonymity, and that was never inexpensive.

"For the night," the Joker said. "In future, you'll be in charge of our living arrangements. New motel every two or three nights. Fake names and no paper trail. I assume you can handle it."

"I was a doctor," Harley said dryly. "Secretarial work is well within my capabilities."

The Joker snorted. "You're going to be much more than my secretary, Miss Quinn. I could have chosen anyone for that."

"I almost don't want to know what you mean." Harley said, sipping at her vodka, and for a second it settled her nerves (if not her stomach.) "Actually," she continued, "I'm going to ask you a question. And you've got to answer honestly."

"Do I?" said the Joker, sounding amused.

"Yes," Harley said. She had noticed that, in his inebriation, Joker had lost that Midwest twang, his apparent gormless naivety. Harley could feel the edges of her mind perking up, taking a personal – rather than professional – interest in the Joker's history. Where _had_ he come from? What tree could conceievably have borne such strange fruit? Harley squashed the thought almost immediately. She couldn't afford to wonder.

"Let me guess," said the Joker, and as though he had sensed her thoughts, that heartland inflection was back. Maybe he wasn't as drunk as she'd thought. Or maybe he really had read her mind. _Pick a card, any card_. "This is going to be about my scars, right?" The Joker frowned with highly exaggerated disapproval. "You want to know how I got my scars."

Harley hesitated. "To tell the truth, Mr. J," she purred, leaning over the table so that he could see down her dress, "I couldn't care less where you got those scars. I wish you'd stop going on about them. It's a little boring."

She only said it because she was drunk enough to be dispassionately curious about what he'd do. The Joker stared, then slapped Harley hard. She had half-expected it, though, and let her head hang to the side like a rag doll, not even flinching. She doubted his anger would last long, and sure enough, a second later Joker chuckled. "Fair enough," he said with an easy shrug, sitting back in his seat with his legs spread. "No more talk about my scars. So what's your question?"

"Don't take this one the wrong way," Harleen said, poking gingerly at her cheek, "But why are you giving this position to Pamela?" She sighed, pouring more vodka into her glass, hoping alcohol would kill the sting. "You've got more than enough sway in this city to seize the drug market. Why give it away?"

"Same reason I've got you making our travel arrangements, my sweet darling," replied the Joker, refilling Harley's glass. "It frees up my time. I don't need control of the drug trade -- it doesn't actually interest me. The things people do when they're _off_ the drugs, that's what's interesting. When it's just people and the things living in their heads… that's what's really funny." Harley nodded, and the Joker continued. "Pam's a smart girl. She'll do a good job and she won't try to cheat us when she gives us our cut."

Harley lifted an eyebrow. "You're not worried she'll try to pull the rug out from underneath you?"

"No," Joker grinned, his breath sweet and rancid, "Because I have a... _very_... special card in my dealings with Pamela, and she knows I could play it. Oh. Anytime."

Harley squinted. "Huh?"

"People are never cold and logical when their emotions are involved. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Actually, uh, no," said Harley. "I don't think I do."

The Joker regarded her for a second, an oddly catlike and sober light in his glazed eyes. "Harley," he said gravely, helping her up from the scarred table and pulling her towards the bed, "Darling. Do you know what a_... lesbian..._ is?"

Suddenly, Harley understood what the Joker was discussing. She sort of wished she hadn't. "That's somewhere in the Carribean, right?" She said dryly.

The Joker cackled. "Sure," he choked out, between giggles, throwing Harley down on the brown rose print of the bedspread. "Sure it is, Harl. Tell you what, you ask Pam about it sometime."

Harley grinned. "I could call her now."

But the Joker had rolled her over and was busy pulling at the zipper that ran down her back. "I don't think so," he said. Ironically, Harley's phone picked just that second to ring. "Leave it," the Joker ordered, but Harley shook her head.

"It could be important." She flipped open her phone. "What if somebody's died? Hello," she added quickly, into the mouthpiece. She did her best to sound sober, but wasn't convinced that it worked. "Doctor Quinzel."

"Harleen! You quit your job."

Harleen squinted, shrugging slightly in response to the Joker's inquiring look. Maybe it was the vodka, but she didn't recognize the male voice on the other end of the line – though it was low, and velvety, the kind of voice that ought to belong to someone handsome. "Yes, thank you, I know that I did," she said. "Who is this?"

"Uh, this is Bruce Wayne," the voice replied.

"Oh!" Harley sat up straight, suddenly feeling guilty, and tried to sound alert and perky. Again, the vodka was no help. "Oh. Hello. What can I do for you?"

"You left me hanging," Wayne said teasingly. "I showed up for our session this morning, and you weren't there. Now, what's a lonely bachelor worried about his mental health supposed to do?"

"Find a different psychiatrist, I suppose," Harley said briskly. She was surprised how easy it was to slip back into the old Harleen Quinzel voice. She was also surprised how damn boring it was, even after ten seconds. "I'm afraid I'm considering other career options."

"But what about my mental health?" Wayne said.

Harley sighed. She could almost picture his playful pout. Bruce Wayne's self-conscious frat-boy attitude did appeal, a little, but not nearly as much as her present company, whose tapping foot was beginning to make his impatience known. "The one time I saw you," she said, "We spend the better part of an hour discussing hockey."

Wayne laughed. "So, what? You don't like hockey?"

"I love hockey," Harley said, laughing as the Joker made a face. Admittedly, what he was hearing of the conversation probably didn't make much sense. "It's not that I didn't enjoy myself, but to be honest, it's a waste of your money. I don't mean to be rude, but I really don't feel that psychoanalysis is what you were after with those sessions. Now, if you'll excuse me –"

"Okay," Bruce Wayne blurted. "Okay. You've got me."

"Do I?"

"Maybe I had an ulterior motive." He sounded a little sheepish. "Maybe I was a little… charmed… by my doctor."

"Keep going," said Harley slowly.

"Maybe I'd like her to come to a certain charity ball," Wayne finished, with a simultaneously hopeful and self-assured flourish, "Occurring at my house on Wednesday night?" Harleen blinked and found that the cat, as well as three-quarters of a mickey, had got her tongue. "You don't have to say yes right now," Wayne pressed on. "But your name's already on the guest list."

"I'm kinda... seeing somebody," Harley said lamely. The Joker squinted at her, and she made a helpless gesture back.

Bruce Wayne didn't seem at all discouraged. "You know what?" he said. "That's fine. Come anyway. Bring a girlfriend. I'll give you a plus-one."

"I – "

"I just want to see you, Harleen. You've got me interested. It's not just that you're beautiful." Uh-huh. How often had he used that line? "There's something going on in your eyes, under the surface."

_That_ was the understatement of the year. She was in her old prom dress, drinking European vodka in a third-rate hotel with the most wanted criminal in Gotham. 'Something' didn't begin to cover what Harleen Quinzel's private life had become. "If you say so."

"I hope I'll see you there," Bruce said. She could practically hear the crackle of his megawatt smile. "Night, Harleen."

She couldn't help but smile. "Good night."

"Who the fuck was that?" The Joker complained, as she folded up her phone.

Harleen smiled a little. "For your information," she said sweetly, "I was just invited to a party. That was Mr. Bruce Wayne." The Joker stared at her, open-mouthed, and for a second she thought he was going to slap her again. Then he tilted back his head and laughed like Harley had never seen, rocking back and forth, holding his sides.

"Are you okay?" Harley asked finally, uncertainly, watching tears stream from Joker's painted eyes, his face going red.

"Wayne,"he gasped, when he finally got some air. "A party with Bruce Wayne. Oh, Harley, that's a good one." He opened his eyes, and Harley read something written in them that she wouldn't like to repeat. Joker was grinning like a sugar skull. "That's a good one. That's the best one there is."

_A/N: I will take this opportunity to pointlessly note that this will be the last thing I write as a twenty-year-old. I turn twenty-one tomorrow! Yay! I guess this chapter is my birthday present to all of you. Or some kind of treat bag (remember those? It was awesome to get stuff for going to someone else's party.) Anyway, enjoy._


	19. Accessories

The morning of October 31 dawned crisp – the Indian summer's death rattle. Harley's car slowly slid past suburbia, her lips moving as she counted the pumpkins, blazing orange in the yellow sun. When she judged herself close to her destination, she shifted her attention from pumpkins to house numbers.

Twenty-Five Rafflesia Crescent turned out to be an apartment complex: not seedy, but not Gotham luxury. Harley disembarked, squinting at the building. After Pamela's parade of Hermes scarves and high-heeled boots, she'd expected something more glamorous. Possibly Pamela couldn't afford better, but circumstances being what they were, that was certain to change. Harley buzzed – twice, and impatiently, when Pamela didn't answer right away.

The PA finally coughed up an obliging static-crackle. "Who is it?"

"It's me." Harley was answered by a buzz as the door unlocked. She trotted down the hallway, a green-carpeted nightmare sentried by fake potted plants, and knocked on Pamela's door. Pamela opened up without greeting her and retreated inside: Harleen followed her, confused. "Why are you wearing a bathing suit?"

"It's not a bathing suit," Pamela replied. "It's a leotard." Pursuing Pamela into the next room saved Harley from the obvious follow-up – "Poison Ivy" was bent over a barre before a tall mirror. Both accoutrements were bolted to the wall, but both still showed bare nails heads; they hadn't come with the apartment. "You're early," Pamela said. "I'm practicing. You'll have to wait."

Harley took a seat by the kitchen table, by the stereo. She eyeballed Pamela's taste in music – operas, ballets -- nothing you could dance to. "You want music?"

"No," said Pamela, "I want quiet. It clears my head."

Harley thought Pamela's head seemed clear, but she was the guest, and knew she shouldn't say anything. In the meditative silence, she watched Pamela arc each leg behind her body, ribcage lifting as she pulled on her toes to deepen the arc. There was a half-broken pair of green satin pointe shoes in the corner. "I didn't know you danced."

"I don't, anymore," Pamela said. "I was too tall."

"So you quit?"

"I more was fired." The redhead's leg descended from the heavens, and Pamela – Ivy -- sipped at her open Perrier water. "They suggested I model."

"And did you?"

Pamela snorted. "I still practice," she said, examining herself in the mirror. It wasn't really an answer – which was itself, Harley supposed, an answer. "Just to keep in shape."

"I was a gymnast."

Pamela lifted an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"In university," Harley said, the absent voyeur as Pamela romanced the barre. "I set a record at my school on the balance beam."

"Really?" said Pamela, torso parallel to the barre. "You don't seem the type."

"What type would that be?"

"The balanced type," Pamela laughed, straightening up. "I'm done," she said. "What's the plan for tonight?"

"Joker's picking us up around nine," Harley replied. "We're supposed to be ready when he gets here."

Pamela sipped from her water. "Then we have some work to do. Remind me what the dress is for this lovely little party?"

"Full costume." Harley suspected that Pamela was toying with her. The redhead didn't seem like the type not to plan outfits ahead. Particularly for such an important debut. "It's Halloween, remember?"

"Of course," said Pamela breezily, whisking past Harleen into the bathroom and shutting the door. "I have just the thing."

"Big surprise," muttered Harley. The only response she got was the dull roar of Pamela's shower. On impish impulse, Harley sidled to Pamela's kitchen sink, paused, and turned "HOT" on full force until she heard a satisfying shriek. Then she grabbed her purse and headed into Pamela's room to get ready.

Pamela's bedroom was the sort of room you'd expect to be Pamela's bedroom – a futon with green satin sheets, a spider plant, a couple potted Venus flytraps. There was another full-length ballet mirror on the wall. Harley shrugged out of her t-shirt and jeans and was about to pull her gown from her bag, then caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and turned for a second. She had stopped growing at sixteen: that decade of the same old Harley meant the ex-doctor had nearly given up mirrors altogether, except to apply cosmetics. Now, though, Harley thought something had changed, there was some alteration. She stared at herself, trying to figure it out. Had she lost weight? Had she done something with her hair? No: the change was as undistinguishable as immediately perceptible. Harleen squinted and pouted and posed, but all she could figure was that maybe it was her eyes. They were brighter or something. She leaned forward to look, and it was this compromising position that Pamela found when she walked into her room. The redhead, who was wearing nothing but a towel, took Harley's state of relative undress rather coolly. "I don't remember telling you to wait in my room."

"Well, you start forgetting things when you get old," Harley said and straightened up, blushing and fishing in her bag. The first layer of her costume was a black silk slip which she fairly scrambled into.

Pamela rolled her eyes and opened her closet, wringing her damp tail of red hair as she surveyed her wardrobe critically. "I'm sorry it's such a mess in here," she said abruptly, after a short, awkward silence. "I'm not used to entertaining visitors."

This was such a departure from character that Harley glanced over. "That's okay," she said. "I didn't even notice. I was thinking your place was kinda nice."

"Most of these things have seen better days," Pamela murmured. "Like me."

"Like most of us." Harley closed a garter belt around her waist, pulled a black silk stocking up her leg – the old-fashioned kind, with a seam in the back.

"You said a costume party," said Pamela. Her guilty gaze followed the top of Harley's stocking up her pale lean leg. "May I ask what you're going as?" Harley shook her head, jamming her feet into patent leather Mary Janes. She fished her makeup bag from her purse and leaned towards the mirror. It hadn't been hard to find white foundation; Gotham had a sizable population of eponymous teenage goths. That went down first, mixed with Harley's regular concealer. She dusted powder on top of that, then slicked down her lips with Harlot Red.

"You do know that makeup dries your skin out," Pamela said disapprovingly. She had walked past Harley's reflection in the mirror, dressed in a short little green velvet Fifties number, and gone into the main room. Harley could hear the refrigerator open.

"Who are you supposed to be," Harley said, as Pamela came back in, "The Jolly Green Giant?"

"I'm Rappacinni's Daughter," Pamela said, re-emerging with a black plastic case in her arms. "Can't you tell?"

Harley didn't know what that meant, but she wasn't about to tell Pamelat. She watched as the other woman opened the black case. It contained a wreath of damp hothouse flowers – lilies, orchids, and some little blue blossoms Harley couldn't identify. Pamela carefully set the crown on her head and smiled at Harley, mischievous, beguiling. "What do you think?"

"You look nice," Harley replied.

"I know." Pamela took a tube of lipstick from her dresser and began to color in her cupid's bow.

"Weren't you just saying makeup kills?"

"This isn't makeup," Pamela said. "It's a tactical manoeuvre." Whatever. Harley returned to her own work. When her makeup was done, she closed her mascara tube, batted her eyelashes experimentally, and looked at herself. She recognized her face, but barely. The black and white and red – she looked like a modernist Snow White, witch and princess at once -- she loved it. Arkham's black Venetian mask, tied over her eyes and nose, didn't cover the makeup job. On the contrary it enhanced it, just one more layer on the canvas of bleak cosmetic overtones and undertones. Pamela peeked at Harley's mask and Mary Janes. "China doll?' she guessed.

"Getting warmer," Harley replied.

"Raggedy Ann," Pamela said hopefully.

Harley glanced at her, amused. "Was that a guess, or an insult?" The finishing touch was still in Harley's purse. She bent over, pulled out the shredded remains of her dead-red prom dress, and pulled it over her black slip gingerly -- careful not to reduce the dress' already fragile structure to mere ribbons. "Help me zip the back," she said. Pamela did so, and closed the hook-and-eye at the top. She and Harley together stared at the reflection in the mirror, at the way diamonds of sheer black slip showed through the ripped red of the prom dress. Harley could feel Pamela catch her breath. Harleen Quinzel and Pamela Isley. Rappacinni's daughter and…

"Harlequin," Pamela said softly. "Appropriate."

"Thanks for your help with the zipper." Pamela didn't move. "Done now, thanks, Red," Harley said helpfully, but Pamela was still frozen, biting her lip. "Hello?"

"Harleen," Pamela said, "I'm embarrassed to ask you this at all, and I'm not trying to offend you. But…."

She trailed off, but Harley was willing to swallow the bait. "What? No, what?"

"Are you sure you know what you're getting yourself into?" asked Pamela. She turned, walked to the bed. "I don't mean to second-guess you, but… the transformation from when I met you is… just astonishing. And worrying. You don't even seem like the same person."

"I'm not the same person."

"The Joker is an incredibly compelling and charismatic individual. I can see how he could swallow someone up. But once you get involved in this, there's no going back. I just – " Pamela paused. "You seem so innocent. Or you did. I don't like to see you get taken advantage of."

Innocent? That was a good one. "Red," Harley said, "How very like a man of you."

Pamela looked at her sharply. "Excuse me?"

"Assuming what you see is what you get," Harley said. "That's the kind of thing I expect from a guy. You should know better. I appreciate your concern, but there's already no going back for me -- there's nowhere for me to go back to. I wasn't even living before I met him. And I know exactly what I'm getting myself into. In fact, I'm thinking clearly for the first time in my life."

"But the other day in the car, with the whining and the dynamite garters and the _bubblegum,_ for goodness' sake – "

"You think you're the only one who can play a part for convenience?" Harley said softly.

Pamela nodded. "Touché," she admitted. "I won't ask again. But if you change your mind, Harleen – "

"Harley."

" – and ever need someplace to go – "

The buzzer sounded. Harley glanced at her cell phone. 9:04. "I'll keep that in mind, Ivy," she said. "But I think that's our drive. Shall we?"

_A/N: (cough) I have no excuse for my disappearance except that school has been INSANE. My sheepish apologies. But, bar one exam, school's over now, and Agape has less than five chapters to go. Buckle up: it's going to be a bumpy night. -- Ami_


	20. Tricks

An owl took their tickets and a black cat let them in. The Joker had arrived fashionably late, Ivy on one arm, Harley on the other. Despite their tardiness, people looked up when the trio entered Bruce Wayne's ballroom. They were looking at the Joker, who had come dressed as himself.

"Appalling taste," Harley heard a woman hiss to her companion. "What was he thinking?"

"Too soon," the other woman agreed, lifting her nose contemptuously as the Joker led his ladies past.

"They don't like your costume," Ivy informed the Joker.

"Free country," he said, grabbing a glass of champagne off a waiter's tray and dashing it back. Even the waiters were costumed; the college boy carrying the champagne was some kind of bird, a swallow or a robin. The Joker replaced the glass on the tray and lifted another, sipping more leisurely. "Try the _Veuve Clicquot_," he suggested, straight-faced, to Harley. "We've got a lot to celebrate."

"Harleen," somebody said, before she could reply.

Even though she had been ready for him, a chill went up her spine. Harley took a second to compose herself before turning, pitching her voice a trifle higher than she had to. "Bruce!"

"You made it," Bruce Wayne said. He was looking over her costume with a somewhat perplexed expression. "What are you supposed to be?"

"I'm a Harley Quinn, get it?" Harley replied. Bruce's eyes had moved beyond her shattered gown to take in the Joker, mouth suddenly set, eyes friendly and very narrow. "What are _you_ supposed to be?" she demanded loudly in return, reclaiming Wayne's attention. Actually, she was a little curious. It seemed bad form to arrive _sans_ costume to your own masquerade.

"Patrick Bateman," Bruce said, not taking his eyes off the Joker.

Harley gave up with a little shrug of the shoulders. Clearly she'd have to introduce the boys. "Bruce, pudding, I'd like you to meet my friend Jack," she said, and draped herself appropriately over the Joker.

Mr. J didn't make a sound, but Harley could feel his diaphragm jerk in a silent chuckle. Bruce Wayne was watching the Joker intently, seeming… unsure. He was squinting again, and his hands were fists in his pockets. "Nice to meet you," he said. "What do you do, Jack?"

The Joker pitched his voice lower, mimicking the wealth and privilege that resonated through Wayne's tone. "Trading," he replied. "Stocks and bonds."

Bruce nodded at Joker's suit. "It's a good costume," he said, casual. "Good scars."

"Well, thanks."

"No tie clip."

For the first time Harley could remember, the Joker looked taken off guard. "Excuse me?" he said, barely hanging onto that wealth-and-splendor accent.

"The Joker never wore a tie clip," Bruce jerked his chin at the gold bar aligning the ribbons of the Joker's green tie.

"Well," the Joker said, touching the tip of his tongue to his lip, "It's only a costume."

There was something in the air that wasn't quite what they had planned. Harley decided she'd better step in. "I know we talked about going out sometime, Bruce," Harley said in her sweetest tone of little-girl-lost, jerking her head at Pamela. "But this is my friend Ivy, and she really wanted to meet you. So I thought maybe I could introduce you two. I think you'd get along."

Bruce took one look at the blooming redhead in the flower crown and you could see him fall. "I'd love to talk to you," he said to Pamela, who merely nodded elegantly, as though millionaires said that to her on a regular basis. "Actually," he added, glancing at Harley, "I'd love to talk to both of you. Jack, mind if I steal your girls for a minute?"

"Be my guest," the Joker replied, shrugging away from Pamela and Harley. "Think I'll go check out the spread. I saw shrimp."

He walked off too briskly for Bruce to reply. Pamela watched him go impassively. She had her clutch open, was slicking herself down with purple lipstick. "Where shall we talk, Bruce?" she asked politely, to reclaim his attentions.

"There's a garden outside – down the hall," Bruce replied. "Let's get some air."

He led them out of the ballroom into one of Wayne Manor's private corridors. "Harleen," he said, the second they were alone – Pamela carefully and firmly closing the door behind them -- "I want to ask you about, uh, Jack. I don't know if you girls are completely... Never mind. Where did you meet – " and then, quite firmly and deliberately, Pamela stepped to Bruce, gripped his lapels with both hands and kissed him hard for five, ten, fifteen seconds.

She drew back and wiped her mouth while Bruce gasped for air. "Er," he managed. Harley watched with interest as Pamela reapplied her lipstick. "I'm very pleased to meet you, too. But if you just want to listen to me for a second – " Pamela rolled her eyes, leaned in and kissed him again. Bruce gripped her by the shoulders, but seemed not to have the strength to push her away. "Ivy – " he panted when she drew back.

"Oh, for goodness' sake," Pamela groaned, reapplied the dark lipstick, and bent in for a third embrace. This time when she pulled away, Bruce slid slowly down the wall, crumpling in a heap on Wayne Manor's lush carpet.

"That is so fucking cool," Harley said.

"I can't take credit for it," Pamela replied. "Old KGB trick. The only reason I'd ever wear lipstick, I promise you that."

"Can you handle this alone?" Harley asked, nudging Bruce's unconscious body with her foot.

"I'll manage," Pamela replied. "I'm going to move him to his bedroom." She winked theatrically at Harleen. "I've checked the layout for this place – the bedroom is the closest. As well as being, probably, the only room where Bruce Wayne will never be disturbed." Harleen opened the door a crack. The laughter and tinkling of champagne glasses bubbled over from the ballroom. "Go have fun, sweetie," Pamela told her, nodding at the door. "This is your coming-out party."

"I'm nervous," said Harley, hesitating. "Should I be wearing white?"

"No," said Pamela. "White stains. And you have messy work to do." Harley stepped back into the ballroom and closed the door.


	21. Treats

"Excuse me," Harley called to the costumed crowd, "Everyone's going to have to leave immediately." She glanced up; people were listening. That was new. "Mr. Wayne's taken very ill," she continued in a laughably worried tone. "He'll be organizing an apology luncheon for this inconvenience as soon as possible. But, with Mr. Wayne's regrets, I'm afraid the party's done for tonight."

Ah, the upper class. If you'd told the proles at a rock concert that they had to leave early, they'd tear you in half -- hadn't they paid good money for their tickets? But for the rich there was no such thing as "good" money, and nothing but disappointed murmurs ensued as the first guests swept through the doors: no ballroom blitz at all. "Trust me," Harley called, to the few reluctant stragglers. "I'm a doctor."

Most of the attendees were gone at once, no doubt to enjoy complaining to each other about Bruce Wayne's rudeness in falling so suddenly ill. A last few diehard partiers needed clearing out. "Wayne's sick, eh?" blustered one man to Harley. Red cheeks, red nose. He'd had too much champagne. "Well, why isn't Wayne telling us? Who are you?"

Harley regarded the drunk with angelic patience and offered up her business card. "I'm Doctor Harleen Quinzel," she replied. "Mr. Wayne's personal physician. He's very contagious. Possibly swine flu. Probably something much worse. Why not get home and sleep it off, sir?"

"Contagious" – the magic word. The guy's eyes opened wide and he grabbed his date's arm, pushing past Harley without a second glance. She loved this type. They'd leave her to fend for herself against Bruce Wayne's flesh-eating disease, so long as they were all right. Why had she ever bothered trying to help these people?

The waiters were leaving, glad of an excuse for an evening off. Harley walked to an abandoned tray of champagne and took a flute in each hand, alternating sips, highly entertained. Who would have known her moment in the spotlight would be so brief, so simple? _Well, no small parts,_ Harley mused, downing a fresh glass of champagne in one swoop._ Just small actors._

"Harleen?" Oh, hell. She knew that voice. "What's going on?" Harley regarded Dr. Jeremiah Arkham narrowly. He was dressed as Julius Caesar – white bedsheet and olive leaves, sans Shakespearian dignity. He was flushed, too. Honestly, didn't anyone do anything at these shindigs but get bombed on champagne?

"Bruce asked me to clear the ballroom," she replied. "He's not well."

Arkham's face creased with worry. No, not worry. Harley squinted, trying to decipher the emotion. "If he's feeling so badly he had to call off a million-dollar party," he said, "Someone should call the hospital."

This man really did have a gift for shoving his newly ruddy nose in where it wasn't wanted. "I already have," Harley lied smoothly. "They're on their way. But they said to get everyone to leave. They don't want a million Facebook snaps of Bruce getting carried out on a stretcher."

"Good thinking," said Dr. Arkham.

"They should be here soon," Harley added pointedly. "Why don't you go home to your _wife _and your _kids_?"

Arkham didn't catch the jibe, was barely listening to her. Harley could see dollar signs in the eyeholes of his mask, suddenly realized what that indecipherable expression was, and expected what he said before he said it. "You'd better let me take a look at Mr. Wayne, too."

_Oh, Jeremiah. You idiot._ "So he'll give you a grateful payout when he recovers his health?" Harley said acidly. "There's already a doctor in the house. I'm taking care of it, so how about -- "

"How about you just stop talking and show me?" Arkham snapped, and something inside Harley snapped too. She didn't have to make Arkham leave. She didn't have to clear him from the Joker's path. She didn't owe this man a thing.

Well, she did. But not _that_.

"Whatever you say, sir," Harley purred, suddenly saccharine sweetness. She walked past him, holding open the door into the hall. Arkham glanced at her, taken aback by her sudden mood swing, but followed.

"That was a sweet-tart moment. I hope you're not nursing any grudges," he laughed, as they walked down Wayne's gilded corridor.

"No grudges," Harley assured him. "I don't get mad."

"Our last few encounters weren't so pleasant," Arkham continued, in the tone of a generous man modestly admitting a tiny fault. "I'm sorry about that."

"Oh," said Harley, "I'm real sorry too."

"My mask looks good on you, you know," Arkham said. Harley could feel the draft as he reached up to touch the ribbons tied behind her head – then dropped his hand, too chicken to touch her again. Good thing, too. If he'd laid a finger on her.... "We should see about meeting up sometime," he said slyly. "Not a employee-employer thing. Just as friends. Would you like that?"

They stopped in front of Wayne's bedroom door. Harley turned to Arkham and smiled at him. "Of course, Jeremiah," she replied. "But first, the Amontillado."

"What?"

Harley pushed open the door. Arkham stopped into the darkened bedchamber, blinded for a second; Harley followed and slammed the door before his eyes adjusted to the light. When they had, Arkham squinted at the occupants of the room: the Joker sipping scotch in an armchair, Pamela curled on the king-sized bed alongside Bruce Wayne's prostrate frame. "What is…"

Harley didn't know if she could have done what she did next, if she'd been on her own. There was a very large part of her that still cringed from the idea of violence, from hurting anyone besides herself. But a larger part of her had discovered the charm of playing to an audience, and the Joker and Ivy were watching. She'd hate to disappoint.

"Mr. J," she said sweetly. With his usual gift for mind-reading, Joker tossed her a knife.

Arkham grabbed for it, but he was slow on the draw. Too much champagne, too sure of himself, and Harley always had been quicker. She caught the blade and examined it for a moment: a vegetable knife, the kind you'd use to carve a face on a pumpkin. Then she jerked it up so it lay alongside Arkham's jugular. "Take a seat, Jeremiah," she breathed, and frog-marched him forward into the room.

Pamela's sleepy green eyes followed Harley and Arkham onto the center of the Persian rug. The redhead was wearing Bruce Wayne's tie knotted twice around her narrow waist. Mr. J was motionless above the rim of his scotch glass. Harley pretended not to see them. She twined one leg around Arkham's torso, all that old gymnast flexibility coming in handy. "So I've been thinking," she breathed in Arkham's ear, "About that bad night we had."

Harley could smell sweat pouring out of every pore – his and hers. She stuck out her tongue, touched Arkham's cheek, tasted salt. "Harleen, I am so, so sorry about that," he blurted, his voice octaves higher than usual.

"When you said I couldn't just promise things I couldn't deliver," Harley elucidated, as though Arkham didn't know perfectly well what she was talking about. "When you said I wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for you."

"I'm sorry, I told you I'm – "

"It turns out you were right," Harley purred. "Without you, I wouldn't be where I am now. And Dr. Arkham?" She poked out her tongue again. He tasted like fear. She'd never sampled someone else's – had always been too adrift in her own – it was like christening cake. "I want you to know that I'm very. Very. Grateful."

There's not much to say about how Harleen Quinzel killed Jeremiah Arkham, except that it was easy, and shot Harleen through with the thrill of a messy taboo, like she was finger-painting. There's not much to say except that she enjoyed it, and let it take longer than it had to. There's not much to say except that Arkham didn't die like a brave man, not much to say but that the Joker watched.

When Jeremiah Arkham's body lay mangled and scarlet at Harley's feet, she glanced up for approval, dampened and sanguine, blushing like a bride.

The Joker was watching her. He didn't say or do anything for a second. Then he grabbed a memo pad off Wayne's side table, scribbled a note, held it up:

_8.5_

Pamela squinted to read the paper. Harley just waited, not understanding. "Half a point deducted for keeping me waiting," said the Joker. "Half a point gone for holding the knife wrong. And half a point gone... for not _smiling_, sweet Harley." He rose from his chair and crossed to her, chucked her under the chin. "I want my girl with a smile on her face and I don't want to have to, uh... put it there myself."

Harley didn't trust herself to speak. Her right hand loosened; the knife dropped onto the floor beside Arkham's body. "Don't look so sad," the Joker said. "Eight and a half, that's damn good for your first shot. And those extra couple points… Well." He laughed. "Just look at what we have."

"What?" Harley breathed. "What do we have?"

"We have Wayne Manor," the Joker replied, with a wheezy chuckle he did his best to suppress. "The whole world thinks Wayne's sick, contagious, being attended to by his personal doctor. No one's going to bother us here. We have a millionaire and his mansion at our beck and call for, uh… well, for as long as we want."

"Let's see the Batman get us," murmured Pamela, snuggled up in Bruce Wayne's arms for warmth, "When we're surrounded by a ten-million dollar security fence. This isn't a mansion, it's a fortress. It's impregnable. Not to mention that it's now ours."

"So don't worry," said the Joker. "About the mess, I mean." He glanced at Arkham's body on the ground, nudged it out of the way with the toe of his shoe, and leaned in to plant a kiss on Harley's cheek. "We're going to have a lot of time together. And you're going to get a lot of practice."

"Really, puddin'?" Asked Harley, all innocence, and offered her other bloodied cheek. "I like the sound of that."

**End**

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**The Agape Playlist**

1. "Daphne Descends" – Smashing Pumpkins

2. "A Change Would Do You Good" – Sheryl Crow

3. "Desperate, But Not Serious" – Adam Ant

4. "It's My Life" – No Doubt

5. "Are You Experienced?" – Jimi Hendrix

6. "Sex Changes" – The Dresden Dolls

7. "Hunter Gets Captured By The Game" – Massive Attack

8. "Who Will Save Your Soul?" -- Jewel

9. "Goodnight Moon" -- Shivaree

10. "Misery Loves Company" – Emile Autumn

11. "Cornflake Girl" – Tori Amos

12. "Fall of the World's Own Optimist" – Aimee Mann

13. "Trigger-Happy Jack" -- Poe

14. "She's Lost Control" – Joy Division

15. "When You Were Young" – The Killers

16. "Rebel, Rebel" – David Bowie

17. "He's A Rebel" – Darlene Love

18. "I Wanna Be Your Dog" – Iggy Pop

19. "Like O, Like H" – Tegan and Sara

20. "Come As You Are" -- Nirvana

21. "Love Is A Stranger" – The Eurythmics

Bonus Track:

22. "Mac and Cheese" – Mary Prankster

_A/N: Writing __Agape has been so much fun, and I've had the best audience. __Agape's popularity took me by surprise and I'm touched and grateful. I read every review and marvel that so many wonderful people spent time on this story. There may or may not be a sequel to __Agape. If it happens, it'll be called "Caritas" and it'll feature Harley and Mr. J, but focus on somebody else._

_In the meantime, those of you who liked __Agape might want to skip over to the X-Men section and check out __Lights In The Dark, which I'll be returning to now that __Agape is done. __Agape took on a life of its own, but it was originally just supposed to be a quick 10 000-word side project while I hashed out some issues with __Lights._

_Cheers,_

_Locked Heart Ami_


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